Hostage Situation II: The Aftermath
by BeTrueToThyself
Summary: Ryoma was sodomized by the pedophile Sakurafubuki. He's trying to ignore it, but everyone is worried about him. And as if that wasn't enough, it seems that there's also a plot afoot much deeper than anyone could have anticipated. No pairings.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Wow, can you believe it? I finally managed to scrape something up from the depths of my paralyzed imagination. I'm actually posting the sequel, after so long. I'm so happy! ^_^ It's not really long, but a little something is better than nothing, eh? I just couldn't ignore all those requests!

* * *

**Hostage Situation II: The Aftermath**

**Chapter 1**

Ryoma Echizen limped toward his house, slid open the bamboo-paneled front door and stepped over the threshold. He looked around; the house was silent and motionless. With a sigh of relief, he dropped his tennis bag to the hardwood floor. He gingerly slipped off his shoes and set them beside his bag. Bandages bulged underneath his right sock.

Ryoma steadied himself on the stairs with a black and blue hand to the rail. Both wrists were wrapped inexpertly with white gauze, as was the palm of his left hand. Purple, swollen bruises decorated his face – particularly the left side. He hobbled as if something deep inside ached.

The twelve-year-old creaked open his bedroom door and shut it behind him with a soft click. He leaned against it, letting his hazel eyes fall shut. The dark circles beneath them blended with the bruising on his face. He swayed, just catching himself with his left hand to the nearby desk. He flinched and clutched it to his chest.

When he blinked open tired eyes once more, his bed gleamed as if the Pearly Gates to heaven had just swung wide. He threw himself across it, face-first. The twelve-year-old slid his hands beneath his pillow and buried his face in its soft plushness, shutting out the late afternoon light. His breath heated the fabric with moist warmth. Locks of unruly, green-and-black hair strayed across the pillow and along the nape of his neck.

Shortly, he felt a small paw tentatively touch his lower back. He smiled into the pillow. The paw grew bolder. Soon, all four pressed into his back. After kneading him in proper preparation, the four points were replaced with a soft, warm lump that began to purr. Ryoma felt the vibrations all along his spine.

Ryoma turned his head to the side to murmur, "I missed you, too, Karupin." The purring grew in volume. The bed seemed to suck him in like quicksand, and he gladly released himself to it.

Several hours later, he awoke to his father bursting in and exclaiming excitedly, "Why didn't you tell me you were back?" Nanjiroh's teasing grin faltered. "Ryoma?" As he took in the bandages and bruises, he stepped toward his son involuntarily. "Are you okay?"

Ryoma's eyelids, glazed with sleep-haze, slowly peeled apart. "What?" He blinked a few times, and shifted onto his side to see his father. Karupin meowed loudly in protest and leapt off him. The boy's brow wrinkled in exhausted confusion.

Nanjiroh dropped to his knees beside his son's bed, grabbing his shoulder. "How did you get those bruises?" he demanded.

Ryoma only frowned at him and blinked slowly.

"Ryoma!" his father exclaimed, concern overwhelming what little patience he had to begin with. "Are you okay?" He shook his son's shoulder.

The tennis prodigy brushed his father's hand off, muttering, "Oi, just let me sleep." He collapsed back onto his stomach, shoving his hands underneath his pillow again. He settled down into the soft blankets and closed his burning eyes. He was asleep within moments.

Nanjiroh sat back on his heels and helplessly dropped his hands into his lap. Listening to the comforting sound of his son's even breathing, his eyes roamed over Ryoma's battered visage in mounting, concerned frustration.

Reluctant to tear himself away, the need to understand – to do _something_ – was nevertheless gnawing at him. He staggered to his feet and left the room. If Ryoma wouldn't tell him, well... he knew someone who would. Hell, she should have called him before Ryoma even got home.

Once downstairs, he snatched up his cell phone. He punched the buttons and slammed the device against his cheekbone. He paced, tapping an angry tattoo against the phone. Finally, Ryuzaki Sumire's voice answered, "Hello?"

"Ryuzaki!" he burst out. "What happened?"

"Nanjiroh?" she asked in bewilderment. "Is something wrong?"

"Damn right there's something wrong!" he shouted. "And I want you to explain it! You organized the damn thing!"

"Nanjiroh," Ryuzaki exclaimed, "what are you talking about?"

His knuckles whitened on the phone. He took a deep, trembling breath and whispered, "It's Ryoma."

Ryuzaki had never before heard that trembling tone from her former student. "Oh my god," she breathed. "Did something happen?"

That gave Nanjiroh pause. "You don't know?" His mind began to race. What in the hell was going on?

She answered slowly, "No. Is he all right?"

He laughed – a sound utterly lacking in humor. "Hardly. He's got bruises all over – wouldn't even speak to me. All he wanted to do was sleep." His eyes clouded. "I've never seen him so... listless."

After a long, groping silence, she managed – quite inadequately, "Well, I'm sure he'll be okay. He's strong."

Nanjiroh gaped. "No, you don't get it! He's _hurt!"_

Ryuzaki threw up her free hand in exasperation. "Yes, you told me that. But it's really not that unusual for Ryoma to not speak to you. He's quiet by nature, anyway."

He inhaled slowly. "That's true," he reluctantly admitted.

"There, you see? You're just overreacting." Though she said this, the tennis coach couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. Nanjiroh wasn't exactly the overreacting type... .

"Maybe. But the fact still remains that someone hurt my son. And I'm going to find out who."

* * *

The next morning, Ryoma awoke to see his father sitting cross-legged with his back against the prodigy's desk, snoring away. A tiny smile flickered across the freshman's face. He painfully pushed himself upright, covering a jaw-cracking yawn with one hand. He blinked heavy lids; he was still impossibly tired.

"Dad," he rasped. Nanjiroh continued to snore. _ "Dad,"_ he called again.

Nanjiroh jerked straight. His eyes immediately locked onto his son. "Ryoma!" he cried. The few feet between them disappeared. Kneeling in front of him, he took Ryoma's swollen and discolored face gently in both hands, searching the boy's hazel eyes. "How do you feel?"

Ryoma winced and leaned out of the touch. "Annoyed."

Nanjiroh let his hands fall, feeling an absurd disappointment. Ryoma seemed to be holding himself stiffly – probably against pain, but the man chose not to mention it. "Are you hungry?" he inquired softly.

Ryoma thought about it a moment and then shrugged. "Not really."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Ryoma peered at his father with narrowed eyes. Without thinking, he asked suspiciously, "Are you sick, or something? 'Cause you're acting really weird."

Nanjiroh stared at his son in disbelief before bursting out with peals of tension-releasing laughter. "Am _I_ sick?" He shook his head, tears streaming down his face. "My son... hurt... asks _me_... ." His voice trailed away into complete incoherence.

Ryoma frowned, but sighed when it became clear that his dad wasn't going to stop anytime soon.

Levering himself to his feet, surprise flashed across his face when he swayed like a tree in a strong wind. Nanjiroh's guffaws ended as if cut with a knife. Leaping to his feet, he steadied his son with two strong hands on the prodigy's shoulders. Before he could say anything, the freshman murmured, "No, I'm okay."

Once steady, Ryoma moved back from his father's touch. Shuffling toward the door, he yawned again. He answered the unasked question with irritation, "I'm just going to watch TV."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you to everyone who read and liked Chapter 1! Thank you all very, very much! You've made me wildly happy. :D Now, while this chapter isn't as long as you nor I would have liked, I said two weeks, and I meant two weeks. This is what I got done while still trying to study for AP tests, and now I'm offering it up for your pleasure... or I hope it's pleasure. Please let me know what you think! Oh, and I did some research. What Ryoma is probably experiencing is Acute Stress Disorder (ASD). And don't worry - I'll soon be talking about the other characters, too.

**Chapter 2**

As Ryoma shuffled slowly down the stairs, pain twisted up from his right foot. With each shambling step, despite being oh-so-careful, it spiked. Vertigo wavered the stairs in and out of his sight. …And he could feel his father hovering just behind him, hands itching to help him – to touch him. Ryoma's knuckles whitened around his grip on the rail.

An age later, he reached the floor and stood there. The only indication that the ground beneath his feet threatened to heave like the deck of a ship was the tightness of his grip on the newel.

"Ryoma?" As if she'd sensed his presence, Nanako stepped out of the hall and into the entryway. She had donned an apron – now dirtied – and at some point accidentally smeared flour across her face. His cousin ventured closer, repeating, "Ryoma?" Her eyes glistened in understanding sympathy when she saw him.

The boy's tired eyes lifted and locked onto hers. Waves of eloquent emotion rolled out from that gaze, buffeting her. Overlaid on all the other flavors was a growing anger. _Don't say anything,_ his eyes pleaded. _Don't you __**dare**__ ask. _

"If… Ryoma, if there's… if there's something you need," she finally stuttered in a small voice, "just… let me know." She turned and fled back through the living room to the kitchen.

Ryoma sighed in relief, and into the living room he limped. When he was positioned in front of the beige couch, he let his legs collapse beneath him, and he slumped into its embrace.

Nanjiroh leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, watching as the prodigy let his eyes slip closed. The weight of the boy's ordeal visibly lifted for just a moment, long enough for Ryoma to sit up and slowly fumble for the TV remote. That same weight seemed to settle onto Nanjiroh's own shoulders. Or rather, he wished desperately that it would, that he could erase whatever had happened. He knew, though, that his was a different, lesser burden, no matter how much he might want it otherwise.

Ryoma could feel eyes on him. His family – and earlier, his friends – didn't feel like they could look away for an instant, or he'd snap. Their eyes were the glue to his cracked racket, they seemed to think. But in truth, he wished that they would just leave him alone. Just look away. Nothing happened. **Nothing. **

Believe in it hard enough, and it just might come true.

Some sort of wildlife documentary flickered across the TV. Ryoma watched passively as the cameraman zoomed in close on a lion just in time to see it roar. Baring long fangs capable of snapping bone clean in half, the lion flicked its tail and howled. Ryoma felt a dim, answering snarl deep within his gut, but it was a cub's cowering imitation, heavy with guilt for its powerlessness.

Some gentle aroma wafted in from the kitchen. He closed his eyes against the rising nausea, and pressed the back of his hand against his mouth.

Nanjiroh finally pushed away from the doorway to perch on the couch beside his son. Weary hazel eyes reluctantly lifted to his. "What?" the boy griped, swallowing down the queasiness.

The man's expression was downcast and confused. "Ryoma," he ventured softly, "please..." His voice trailed away helplessly. He took a breath and tried again. "Won't you tell me what happened to you?"

The boy's face twisted. "That again? Look, I don't want to talk about it. It's nothing."

His father's brow furrowed as he groped for patience. "But –"

"Don't." Rhyolite eyes narrowed.

"Ryoma!" Nanjiroh threw his hands into the air. "I'm just trying to help!" Unwanted tears choked him. "Please, I just want to know what happened to you." He couldn't hold his instincts back any longer and so yanked the boy into a hug.

Ryoma gasped in fright as his father's powerful arms closed about him. With a half-articulated wail, he shot out of the suffocating hold and leaped to his feet. Hands held forth, he backed away until he smacked into a wall, shaking his head over and over. Haunted hazel eyes brimmed over with panic and fear.

Their emotionally charged staring was interrupted by Nanako.

"Ryoma?" she innocently asked again, emerging from the kitchen doorway only feet away from the freshman with a plate piled high of his favorite treat. "I… baked… cookies…" She trailed off and halted, glance flickering between terrified son and bewildered father. "What happened?" she demanded.

The tennis prodigy fought for composure. "N-n-nothing." He heaved a deep breath. "Nothing happened." He caught sight of the cookies and snatched one, even though the sight made his stomach jump madly, just to have something to do with his hands.

"Arigatou," he muttered, and beat a rapid, limping retreat to the stairs.

"Ryoma, wait!" his father called, coming out of his trance. He shot to the doorway before his hobbling son could and faced him down. Ryoma glared up at him from under his bangs. "I'm sorry," Nanjiroh apologized for the unwelcome touch. "I didn't… mean to scare you. I just… wanted to comfort you." _And myself_.

Ryoma didn't answer.

"Now, please, could we sit back down and talk?" His father gestured to the couch.

"No."

Nanjiroh sighed, "Ryoma…"

The twelve-year-old's face set with stubbornness. "There's nothing to talk about," he insisted. "So move. Please."

If asking nicely didn't work, well, Nanjiroh could be as stubborn as he; that's where the boy got it in the first place, after all. "No. We need to talk."

"We **don't**." Desperation began to take hold in his eyes.

"Stop it, Ryoma!" Nanako cried. Her voice was filled with unshed tears. They both turned to her forgotten presence, startled. "Please, just stop it!" The plate of cookies shook in her grasp. "It's **not **nothing! It can't be nothing!"

For the first time that morning, he looked uncertain. Nanjiroh spoke gently, "You see? We're both worried, so much so it hurts. Just… please, let us help."

"Dad…" he mumbled. He swallowed, glancing up at him with a watery gaze before returning it to the floor. He squared his shoulders. "I don't need help," he asserted, pushing past his father.

Nanjiroh let him go, sighing in defeat.

* * *

Ryoma leaned against his closed bedroom door and slid slowly down. Then he rested his elbows on top of his knees and buried his head against his arms. A small sob escaped his lips, against his will.

For the past two days since the… incident, he'd felt nothing – and nothing was peaceful. But today, this third day, his numb walls had broken. Everything had broken.

Memories rushed past him: the feel of large hands sliding down his bare arms, the rough wool of the tuxedo pressed against his front, the terror of being unable to breathe as _he_ pressed histhumbs deep into the boy's throat. Tears slid down Ryoma's face, hidden in the folds of his arms.

He couldn't stop the recollections. They were always there, always haunting him, always intruding into his every thought – try as he might to avoid them.

There was a lamp in the living room – his mother's favorite lamp, so there was nothing he could do nor say. But its paper shade was painted with bright colors; he couldn't bear to look at it anymore. Shattering glass sounded in his ears every time, and the colorful shards rained down like torn-off pieces of innocent butterfly wings.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **High school is finally over = good news on the writing front! Sorry for missing that promised two-week update, but hey - this chapter is longer! ^_^ Part of what made it late is that I did some more research. This time it was for the Japanese judicial system. (I bet you're wondering what that will mean for the story, huh?) Mind you, I try to make it accurate, but I live in America, so sometimes it'll probably sound more like the U.S. system. If anyone notices that something is wrong, please let me know! And if you don't, well, review anyway, onegai shimasu!

Thank you, all my wonderful readers!

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**Chapter 3**

Ryoma sniffed and roughly scraped away his tears, wiping the wetness onto his shorts. He wrapped his arms tightly around his legs, staring red-eyed at his bedroom carpet. It was all his fault! If he hadn't brushed off Fuji's offer when they were running to safety, if he'd just swallowed his pride... He clenched his teeth. It wasn't as if he hadn't had any hints, either. With a shiver, he recalled the first time he met Sakurafubuki – the way his dark eyes had raked Ryoma's nearly naked body.

He leaped to his feet, scraping at his exposed skin, feeling as if there were a thousand centipedes crawling all over him. He desperately clawed open his dresser drawer, flinging clothes behind him before finally yanking out dark pants and a black, long-sleeved shirt. In a rush he changed into them. He breathed a shaky sigh, slightly calmer as he dug for socks. He tugged them on, careful around the bandage.

Wearied, Ryoma then collapsed onto his rumpled bed. His body ached more than he would have thought possible. But then, he supposed a tumble down the stairs and a few fists to the face would do that to a person. Ryoma chuckled wryly to himself, cutting short when his bruised ribs protested.

Still somehow cold despite the heat of too many layers on a summer's day, Ryoma curled into a ball. He felt just a little bit safer that way... even if it was just an illusion. Good thing no one was there to see it – to see his breakdown, his vulnerability. Nobody else should worry about him any more than they already were. Part of the reason he went downstairs was to prove that he wasn't _that_ tired, even though he felt like he could sleep straight into next week. It was to prove that he really was okay.

Talk about a failure.

Ryoma snorted. At least now he didn't have to deal with anyone's exhausting, pestering presence. He was alone, wonderfully alone.

However, when in his mind's eye he saw again Sakurafubuki's too-white smile widen right before the chef's fist slammed into Ryoma's cheek, the twelve-year-old wished his dad was sitting there beside him.

* * *

Earlier on that same Wednesday morning, Ryuzaki Sumire strode onto the tennis courts of Seishun Gakuen and hollered, "Round up, everyone!"

Once they had all scrambled to line up in front of her, she surveyed them and directed, not unkindly, "Okay, juniors and seniors, pair up. You're playing doubles matches. Freshmen, you're picking up balls." The latter didn't dare to grumble, but their faces fell. She held up a hand. "Oh, I know you freshmen were looking forward to watching the regulars play against each other, but I need to speak with them for a moment. That said – regulars, please follow me." The eight frowned, even as in their downcast faces, confused eyes flickered to one another.

She marched stiffly to the locker room, trusting that they would follow. As she held open the door, their coach waved them through. Glancing askance at one another, they reluctantly filed inside.

When she closed the well-oiled door behind her with a soft click, her mask of forced normality fell away: her shoulders slumped and she seemed to age before their eyes. Their eyebrows lifted when she eased wearily onto one of the nearby benches. At last raising her careworn gaze to theirs, she encouraged, "Come, sit. Don't leave your coach as the odd one out." The boys' mouths twitched polite, weak smiles, and they complied.

Then she took a deep breath, held it for an unsteady heartbeat, and simply charged in. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you on that cruise – more sorry than I could ever express." Her eyes glistened with sincerity. "Maybe if I'd just been there… ." Voice shaking slightly, she admitted helplessly, "But I still don't quite know what happened. When Echizen's father called, demanding an explanation... I couldn't give him one." She waited, asking without actually daring to ask.

Inui adjusted his glasses with a trembling finger. At Tezuka's twitching face Fuji glanced, then quickly away. Momo and Kaidoh clenched their fists in unison, but didn't snap at each other. Staring at his shoes, Kawamura shifted in his seat. Oishi seemed petrified and on the edge of bursting into tears. Kikumaru slung an arm around his best friend's shoulders, an uncharacteristic sadness in his expression.

"Ryuzaki-sensei," Oishi began shakily. "He – Sakurafubuki Hikomaru... he… " His voice failed him.

Momo broke in, "He beat up Echizen!"

Then all their voices tumbled one over the other:

"He tied us up – "

" – threats – stabbed this chicken – "

"– guns –"

"– took Echizen –"

"– crying – found him –"

The coach's surprised eyes flicked from one speaker to the next in a frantic dance. Nervous laughter escaped her lips. "One at a time, one at a time!"

In the abrupt silence, Tezuka articulated carefully, "Of course, sensei." He met his team's eyes as he continued – half statement, half question, "Allow me to begin." No one protested.

Their Captain stonily recited the bare facts of their ordeal with only a slight tremble in his voice until he finally said, "Then Oishi called, saying that they'd found him." Here he faltered, glancing at said Vice-Captain.

Oishi started, staring wide-eyed at Tezuka. His wide gaze flicked to Kawamura's and Kaidoh's similar expressions of a deer in a headlight's beam. Oishi's throat closed up and his eyes watered. He hastily returned his gaze to the floor.

Tezuka licked his lips, hesitated, and then continued reluctantly; none of the three rescuers interrupted him. None dared to break Ryoma's trust and utter the unthinkable, though it tore up their insides. The memory of their kouhai's profound relief was too strong.

By the time Tezuka's last sentence had trailed off, their sensei was wiping tears away with a quaking hand. "I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice thick. "I'm so sorry you were forced to go through that." She raised her watery gaze to theirs, somehow finding the strength of will to gather up the threads of her frayed composure. "If I'd had any idea, any at all, I would never have let you go, never let you out of my sight!" Taking a deep breath, she entreated, "Please believe me when I say that if any of you need anything, _anything, _I'm here for you."

Fuji rose to his feet and approached his coach, resting an awkward hand on her shoulder. He gently echoed Tezuka. "Of course, sensei. Of course."

She laid an appreciative hand atop his, giving a watery smile. "Thank you."

They rested a long moment in the supportive silence before Ryuzaki released his hand, and he settled back into his seat. Their coach finally offered, "No one else has to know about this if you don't want them to." They all nodded.

"Okay, then," she announced, standing with a creak of aged joints. "We've disappointed the freshmen long enough, don't you think?"

* * *

**Tuesday:**

Sakurafubuki Hikomaru slouched back into the uncomfortable metal chair and smirked at the frustrated policewoman across the table. The two of them were enclosed in a dingy little room lit by a soiled fluorescent ceiling panel that flickered exactly once every four and a half minutes. There were no windows, not even in the scratched wooden door.

The policewoman folded masculine hands atop a manila file folder before her, clenching her fingers tight enough to mark her Hispanic skin. "So," she remarked, "you're alleging that you weren't involved in the fraud or the gambling? I find that incredibly difficult to believe."

He shrugged nonchalantly, noticing with humiliation the pull of bruises under his orange jumpsuit. "Regardless, I am ashamed to have to admit to you that my staff committed such acts under my very nose."

She lifted an eyebrow and murmured sarcastically, "Mm-hmm." Flinging open the file folder, she shuffled through the thick stack of papers before plucking out a photo. Sliding it in front of him, she demanded, "Well then, why don't you explain this instead?"

With a rattle of handcuffs, he stretched out both arms and snagged it, lifting it to eye level. Across his bruised and swollen visage flitted unfeigned surprise before he hastily closed down his expression: in the camera's harsh flash glinted vibrant pieces of glass that were scattered across a gleaming wood floor; blood had dried in thick, brown trails.

Her voice penetrated his angry reverie. "We've already tested that blood against the DNA sample we took from you, and some of it even matches." Pausing for dramatic effect, she asked softly, "Whose blood is the rest of this?"

Sakurafubuki flung the photograph back onto the table, sniffing, "I do not know. Quite frankly, I am dismayed and insulted that you would even consider the idea that I do."

She huffed in genuine amusement. "Besides the fact that some of that blood is yours? You should realize by now that that jumpsuit isn't for fashion week!" Shaking her head, she stuffed the photo back into the folder.

Interlacing her fingers atop the folder again, she gently stated, "Sakurafubuki-san, this blood found in your private quarters is very incriminating evidence, and assault is a very serious charge. But if you were defending yourself against an assailant, that's an entirely different story. So, tell me: who did you fight with?"

His thin goatee seemed to frown along with his mouth. "I did not fight with anyone," he insisted.

"I'll remind you that if it was self-defense, we can't prosecute you. So was it defense or assault?"

"It was neither!" he defended a bit desperately.

Her tone grew sharper. "Sakurafubuki-san, I advise you to stop denying it. The sentencing of some of these charges can be dire." After flicking a stray lock of black, curly hair over her shoulder, she began to count off on her fingers. "A) we've got several hundred people involved in the gambling hosted by the ship _you_ own. That can land you five years imprisonment with work. B) we have documentation that every inch of that boat is fake, though you charged like it was gilded with 24 karats. That's 10 years." She allowed a small smirk to spread across her face. "C) we've already got a detention order from the judge and we can hold you for ten days while we investigate that blood in the photo… among other things." Her eyes narrowed minutely. "D) soon, I imagine we'll be able to add kidnapping to the list of charges, judging by witness accounts." Pleasure warmed her at the alarm growing behind his dark eyes. "Not including any assault charges, that's 25 years, right there." She leaned forward, whispering, "But if you confessed, I could talk to the prosecutor and convince him to cut you some slack, which, at the very minimum of the law, would give you maybe a year."

He shifted nervously in the dented metal chair and didn't reply.

"Sakurafubuki-san," she warned, "this is a very good deal for you, one that I might not be willing to offer later."

He hesitated before suddenly bursting out, "I want a lawyer!"

Anger tightened her eyes, but she rose with a murmur of, "Very well. That is your right, but I'll be back to continue this once your attorney arrives." The door opened and closed, leaving in her wake a relieved silence.

Sakurafubuki let out a shaky sigh and ran tanned fingers through his long, wavy hair. "Thank God she's gone," he muttered to himself. Then he pulled his hair into frustrated fistfuls. "What a bitch," he snarled. He'd spent years building up his ship, his reputation, his clientele. And now it was all for naught! His pride and joy – gone! He gritted his teeth. Yesterday, he'd gazed across his kingdom lit by the rising scarlet sun, and today he was rotting in this godforsaken, noisome hellhole.

When the light flickered once at its prescribed time, he jumped. His cuffed hands dropped to his lap. As he sat waiting for the guards to escort him back to his cell, his mind wandered involuntarily to another, older pain – a pain that was still sharp. He sighed, hunching in on himself. It happened less than two months ago...

_Sakurafubuki rolled over in his sleep, hands seeking the warm body that should have been beside him. He awoke at the touch of cool, empty sheets, mumbling, "Hiroshi?"_

_Standing at the end of the bed, the twenty-three-year-old jumped at the soft sound of his name, murmuring in surprise, "Hikomaru!"_

_Sakurafubuki sat up; the creamy sheet slid down his bare chest to pool in his lap. A contented smile, ready to bloom, died suddenly when he spotted the suitcase in the other man's hand. His stare flicked immediately up to his lover's guilty, yet saddened expression._

_"Hiroshi!" Sakurafubuki cried. "What...?"_

_The other man flinched and wouldn't meet his eyes. "Hikomaru," the young man murmured. "I didn't expect you to wake."_

_Sakurafubuki pleaded, "Hiroshi, please, don't tell me you're..."_

_The twenty-three-year-old flinched again, but straightened his shoulders and lifted his young face – a face still too young to shave – to his long-time partner. "I am," he whispered. His lower lip began to quiver despite himself._

_Sakurafubuki shot to Hiroshi's side and grabbed his shoulder, forcefully turning the shorter man's body to face his. "No! No, you can't leave!" The magnate shook him._

_Hiroshi reluctantly lifted large hazel eyes to the older man's. "I have to," he muttered, voice shaking. "I..." He dropped his gaze to his shoes._

_Sakurafubuki's heart began to crack at that despondent look. The magnate brushed straight, black hair out of his partner's downcast face, cupping his smooth cheek. "Hiroshi," he breathed desperately. "Why?" A tear slid down that beautiful skin and onto his fingers. Hiroshi sniffled, then tore away from him, gazing unblinkingly at his lover with a pathetic, tortured expression._

_"Hiroshi, please!" Sakurafubuki cried, hand outstretched._

_The young man fled._

Sakurafubuki started when the door in the present day creaked open, revealing two surly cops. They marched to either side of him and grabbed his upper arms, lifting him to his feet. "Come on, it's time to go," the one on his left growled. Sakurafubuki obediently shuffled into the hallway, his head hanging.

* * *

**A/N: **Didn't that just break your heart? Really, I've got to find a way to get at least some comedic relief in there...


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Wednesday Afternoon:**

Ryoma, his face empty, gripped the doorframe. He'd put it off as long as possible, but the pressure low in his stomach had mounted to the point of pain. He took a deep breath and reluctantly limped into the bathroom.

His painful business done, Ryoma's discolored, swollen face stared back at him from the mirror. It seemed like everything – muscle soreness, sleep deprivation, injuries, and perhaps even emotion – always took two days to really hit. Well, day two had arrived with enmity in its heart.

The numbness that had suddenly deserted him this morning – he desperately wished it was back. His mouth quirked. Maybe that was all that it took. He closed his eyes, waiting for its blank comfort to cloak him like the cool night. A long moment passed, yet nothing seemed to happen.

He sighed. Inaction had become a theme, ever since… His life hung in limbo, and he had no urge to find a footpath. It was quite the contrary; to find a path meant to face **it**, and to face it meant pain.

Ryoma yawned. Sleep, on the other hand, meant relief. At night, control fell back into his hands. The dreamscape was his, and his alone. Nothing could harm him there if he didn't allow it. Sleep embodied his one escape from the memories that in wakefulness sought to drown him.

Memories…

Ryoma dropped his eyes to the gauze half-covered by his sleeve. Rolling back the inky fabric on his left arm, he unwound the bulky bandage from his hand and wrist. The final layer peeled grudgingly from his skin, sticky once with blood. Brown and dry now, he let it flutter into the sink.

Though grim as it should have been, the sight before him brought nothing. His wrist was chafed raw and pink, sore to the touch. Across his hand ran a thick, jagged cut encrusted with black blood. Clots bulged at the natural creases of his hand where the wound had bled afresh. "Hmm, probably needs stitches," he muttered to himself. After a short while of indifferent observation, he gathered up the old gauze and rewrapped his wrist and hand. Limping to the door, he pulled it open.

Ryoma halted abruptly. "Dad."

Nanjiroh dropped his fist from where it was about to knock. "Ryoma." He hesitated. "Um, your friends are here." He pointed over his shoulder with a thumb.

Ryoma's hand slipped from the door to his side as he slumped.

Nanjiroh hurried on, "But if you'd rather I just told them that you're too tired, I could do that."

Even in knowing that that kind of concerned offer from his dad was beyond abnormal, the twelve-year-old could muster no protest. "Thanks." Guilt twinged, but the relief was more potent.

"No problem." Nanjiroh moved to grip his shoulder; Ryoma flinched. His father hastily withdrew his hand, murmuring, "Sorry." With one last glance over his shoulder at his son's face, Nanjiroh headed downstairs.

Only moments, it seemed, after Ryoma had shut his bedroom door against the world, did he hear Momo's angry shout of, "Echizen!" Ryoma froze where he sat. Feet tore up the stairs, ignoring the chorus of, "Momo, NO!"

Ryoma's door was wrenched open, revealing his friend's flushed face. The freshman blinked. "Momo-senpai?" he asked mildly.

"Echizen!" the older boy cried in relief. He took a step into the room and hesitated, finally seeming to realize his faux pas. His dark eyes searched Ryoma's wan, bruised face, bare of all emotion.

Ryoma prompted, "Yes?" His rhyolite eyes then flicked past him, to the faces peering warily over the junior's shoulder.

"Senpai-tachi," Ryoma stated as tension crept into his shoulders. He closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to ask, "Is there something you wanted?"

Fuji called, "Just to see you." And see him they did – if possible, he looked worse than the last time they saw him.

Kikumaru pushed past Momo, plunking down on the bed beside Ryoma and chirping, "We missed you at practice today, Chibi!"

Ryoma recoiled. The senior winced in return, a hurt look blooming in his eyes that he tried to smother.

Nanjiroh called into the room, "Ryoma? Everything okay in there?"

The freshman inhaled carefully before answering, "Yeah, Dad." There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Echizen?" Momo ventured, still standing in the doorway. "Aren't you hot wearing all those clothes?"

Ryoma glanced down his body, then turned his face away, eyes shuttered. "No."

"Really? 'Cause I swear, I'm sweating just looking at you."

Ryoma spoke in a monotone, "So don't look."

Kaidoh reached over and smacked the back of the other junior's head. "Baka."

"Oi!" Momo hollered, lifting a hand to his scalp. "What was that for?" He whirled around.

Kaidoh sneered, "You're stupid."

"Who're you calling stupid, baka Mamushi?" Momo growled, clenching his fists.

Ryoma interrupted, "If you're all just going to stand there, you might as well come in." The two juniors fell quiet.

Inui pushed his glasses up his nose with a forefinger, peering in past Fuji's head and Momo's shoulder. "Only five more of us would fit."

Ryoma rubbed a bruise-free section of his forehead. "Fine. Downstairs, then." Steeling himself, he gingerly stood and gestured for them to go ahead.

Kikumaru hopped up. "Okay!"

Momo stepped back onto Fuji's feet, muttered an apology, and then offered, "After you, Echizen. After you."

Ryoma lifted an eyebrow but relented without a fuss. "Tch. Scoot over."

Kaidoh hissed affectionately, "Arrogant brat."

The group staggered out of the way. Ryoma squeezed past, careful not to brush up against any of them. He shuffled humiliatingly slowly down the stairs, and after making his faltering way into the living room, he finally plunked down at the end of the couch. Déjà vu, anyone?

His friends arranged themselves around the room, some on the floor. "…So?" Ryoma finally inquired into the awkward silence.

Kawamura hurried, "Right, right." He rubbed the back of his head, asking without meeting Ryoma's eyes, "How are you doing?"

Ryoma shrugged. "Fine." Tezuka's face didn't change, but the air around him grew slightly chastising. The freshman huffed and folded his arms. "Tired, but fine."

"Echizen…" Oishi shifted uncomfortably. "Ryuzaki-sensei asked us about what happened."

Ryoma's expression tightened.

Oishi rushed on, "Tezuka-buchou told her." His earnest black eyes locked with the freshman's.

Ryoma glanced suspiciously to Kawamura and then to Kaidoh, neither of whom appeared guilty, only caught off-guard. Then he looked to Tezuka, and some nuance of ignorance in his expression convinced the freshman to relax back into the couch.

Brow lifted slightly, Inui noted the fleeting exchange of looks.

Kaidoh suddenly stiffened, a failing expression of indifference plastered hastily onto his face. All eyes shifted to him: Karupin had padded up behind the junior and was now rubbing up against him, meowing. The cat then spotted its owner and abandoned Kaidoh's unrelenting side, leaping onto Ryoma's lap. The freshman softened as the cat curled up in a fluffy, purring lump.

"Aw," Kikumaru crooned with a grin. Ryoma graced the senior with a tiny smile.

Momo, seated beside said freshman on the couch, boomed in excitement, "Echizen!"

Karupin jumped, digging claws into Ryoma's thigh. The twelve-year-old winced. "What, Momo-senpai?" Gentle paws began to knead the pricked skin in apology.

"When are you coming back to school? When?" Momo leaned in close, bright-eyed.

Ryoma only shrugged and stroked his cat.

Momo lost a bit of his sparkle, but his hope remained. "Well, I was just thinking… how about we go for burgers that day?"

Kikumaru clapped his hands in delight. "Ooh, ooh, me too! Me, too, nyah!"

Ryoma eyed them both with a wisp of a familiar smirk. "Senpai's treat?"

The junior chuckled as Kikumaru's face fell. Momo winked at Ryoma and grinned at the overactive senior, answering, "Hai. Senpai's treat."

"Hey!" cried Kikumaru with a pout. He turned to Oishi for comfort, saying as if the other hadn't heard, "Oishi, Oishi, they tricked me! They want me to pay for burgers!" The Vice Captain just shook his head, a small, burgeoning smile smoothing out the stress lines on his face.

Fuji smiled wider than usual. "Hmm, why don't we all go? Ne, Tezuka?" Kikumaru perked up at that.

The Captain peered suspiciously over his narrow-rimmed glasses at the senior beside him but, after a quick appraising look to Ryoma, nodded. "Hai."

Kawamura lifted a shy hand. "Well, in that case… I could probably convince my dad to give us a discount. If that's okay with everyone, I mean. It'd be sushi, not burgers."

Kaidoh murmured a tad awkwardly, "What do you think, Echizen?"

"It's not worth all that." The freshman shrugged again. "But whatever."

* * *

Nanjiroh followed the Seigaku regulars down the stairs, and then strode down the hall and into the kitchen. No one was there. He frowned, somewhat at a loss. With a mental shrug, he ambled back down the hallway and out the back door. Spotting that long-familiar form leaning against the belfry, he hurried over.

"Ryuzaki," Nanjiroh called. "You weren't in the kitchen."

She glanced over at him, letting her crossed arms slide to her sides and pushing away from the stone to stand straight. "It's cooler out here in the breeze."

"Aa," he agreed. His gaze fell from hers and hovered on the swaying trees beyond the tennis court. "Ryoma still won't talk to me."

She sighed. "Nanjiroh, I spoke to the other regulars."

He met her eyes as his face cautiously began to alight with hope. "You did?"

Her voice began to quiver. "Yes, and… they told me… what happened." She took in a steadying breath.

"Tell me!" Nanjiroh took an aggressive step toward her.

Taken slightly aback, she nevertheless complied. By the time she finished, he was trembling with barely suppressed rage. Cursing under his breath, he paced to the edge of the court and back, driving his fingers into his short, black hair. "I'll tear that bastard to pieces!" His son, his precious son… How could anyone do that to him? "Fuck!"

Ryuzaki stepped into his path, forcing him to a sudden halt. "Nanjiroh, he's already been arrested."

He stared daggers at her. "It's not enough!"

Her face sagged with sadness. "I know." She turned to frown up at the house. "I know."

From beside her came a deflated whisper. "Hurry home, Rinko. He needs you."


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Okay, so... that was more than a week. But lengthwise, it's like two for the price of one! Also, I'm pretty sure you'll like this chappie. Oh, and cookies go to anyone who recognizes the allusion that I added!

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**Thursday, Late Morning:**

Nanjiroh sighed. "Nanako, could you get the door?" he called from behind his newspaper as the doorbell continued to screech.

His frazzled niece wiped her sweating forehead with the back of one wrist. Preoccupied with the stove covered in hissing, overflowing pots, she snapped over her shoulder, "Uncle! I'm a bit busy!"

Nanjiroh rolled his eyes, stood and dropped his paper onto the table with a thunk. He froze. Nanako bustled away, oblivious. He breathed a sigh of relief and lovingly adjusted the edge of the paper back over the latest edition of _Busty Asian Beauties._

Striding down the hallway, he hollered, "All right, all right, I'm coming! Let go of the bell already!" Yanking open the door, he cried petulantly, "We were just about to eat!" Then he did a double-take. "Took you people damn long enough," he muttered.

A young, uniformed man snatched his hand back from the buzzer with a guilty look. Next to him, a middle-aged woman's serious face didn't even flicker as she bowed. "I apologize for the inconvenience. You are Echizen Nanjiroh-san?" She waited for his assent. "My name is Santiago Isabela, and I am with the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department." She lifted a thick-veined hand to the man beside her, who was fresh-scrubbed and probably just out of the Academy. "This is Ogata Kenshin."

He glanced from one to the other. "You're here to talk to Ryoma?"

"Yes."

"Good." He hissed, "That bastard should rot in jail for the rest of his life!" Ogata looked startled at that. Nanjiroh stepped back out of the way and gestured in the two. Slipping off their shoes, they followed Nanjiroh into the living room. Once seated, the Hispanic woman folded her hands in front of her. The monk (ostensibly, anyway) flopped into an armchair.

"Well, Uncle? Who was at the door?" Nanako called from the kitchen.

He yelled back, "The police."

She dropped a spoon with a clatter. "What?"

Ogata stifled a chuckle. His partner shot him a glare, and he hastily straightened his expression.

Nanjiroh grinned at him and repeated, "It's the police."

His niece stepped into the kitchen doorway. She bowed, asking a little nervously, "Are there any refreshments you would like?"

Ogata lifted a finger with a hopeful expression, opening his mouth to speak. Santiago cut him off, replying, "No, thank you." Nanako smiled and bowed again, retreating into the kitchen. The resumed banging of pots and dishes was quite a bit louder than before. "All this work, just to grow cold," she grumbled, barely audibly even to herself.

"Echizen-san," the woman began again over the noise. "You are Echizen Ryoma's father?"

"Yeah, the brat's mine," he replied.

Amusement spread into her chocolate eyes, seemingly against her better judgment. "Right. Well, obviously you know of the incident on the _Umem__aru?_"

He frowned. "You mean the ship?"

Ogata nodded. "Hai."

Nanjiroh growled, "I know enough." He narrowed his eyes at the thought of his son's bruises. "Ryuzaki told me what the other regulars said."

"Ryuzaki?" eagerly inquired Ogata.

"The coach." Nanjiroh waved the matter off.

"I see," Santiago said. "Hasn't Echizen-kun spoken of it at all?"

"No, he hasn't," he muttered.

She considered that a moment. "Well, if it's all right with you, we'd still like to ask your son a few questions. His statement will be immensely helpful in our investigation."

"He's outside." Nanjiroh pointed with a thumb.

She hesitated, suggesting, "Perhaps it would be best if we spoke here."

Nanjiroh rose to his feet. "All right. But I'm staying in the room when you talk to him."

"Of course."

* * *

Hands folded underneath his neck, Ryoma lay on his back, watching the clouds puff across the azure sky. Like a rain stick, the cool breeze whispered through the branches. His emerald-and-ebony hair drifted across his cheek as a fog would, soothing and obscuring. The wind pressed against his skin the dark, soft fabric cloaking him from head to foot, fluttering the free hems and caressing a path down his sleeve, up his calf, and around his stomach. A flower's gentle aroma floated down to him in the wake of a gust, and then was sent swirling away only a moment later.

Ryoma hoped that this desperately needed peace would not be as ephemeral as that scent. Ah, here it bobbed again, like a shed petal on the surface of a creek – sucked in by a hydraulic downriver of a rock, only to be thrown out again wilted by the turbulence. Yet it glided on, persevering toward its unknowable destination.

"Ryoma?" came the familiar voice of his father from behind him. The boy jumped. "The cops are here to talk to you."

Ryoma's slow-moving, half-asleep peace shattered into a thousand pieces. He sat bolt upright, spinning around to face Nanjiroh. "What?" he whispered. Shaking his head, he protested, "I – no. No."

His father strode closer, crouching in the grass before the terrified boy. "Ryoma, I realize that you don't want to talk about this. But the police need to know what you know." He held out a hand. "So why don't you come inside?"

Ryoma shot to his feet. "No!"

Nanjiroh stood, too. "Ryoma! Don't you want this Sakurafubuki to go to jail?" His hands fisted. "He hurt you!"

It still angered Ryoma that his dad had found out what happened, even as much – or as little – as he had. The preteen wanted to yell, "_So?"_just to be spiteful, but he hesitated. It was true that he was furious. It was also true that he never wanted to talk about it.

The freshman narrowed his eyes and stalked past Nanjiroh into the house.

The officers rose to their feet at the sight of him, eyes widening. Ryoma glared at them out of a blue and black face. "What?"

The woman's gaze slid past him to Nanjiroh. "Has this boy been to the hospital?"

Ryoma snapped before his father could reply, "Does this answer your question?"

He lifted an arm, shoving down the sleeve to reveal gauze.

Santiago lifted an eyebrow. "No, actually. It doesn't." She shifted her gaze back to Nanjiroh as her expression hardened. "I'll ask again; has he been to the hospital?"

"I, uh… no," Nanjiroh stammered.

Her nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply. "Then we shall regroup there, along with one of our CSIs. Is that acceptable?"

Ryoma interjected, "What? No! I'm not going!"

Nanjiroh chastised, "Ryoma!" His son stabbed him with his eyes.

Santiago was **not** good with children, much less traumatized ones. She'd been assigned the child cases anyway, probably because she was one of the only women on the police force. Uncertainty and frustration spread across her visage as she turned to her partner. Ogata cleared his throat, stepping toward the boy. "Echizen-kun," he said softly. Ryoma eyed him warily. "You know, it won't be so bad. It's just a little doctor visit." Ogata let a small smile spread. "Don't tell me you're afraid of needles?"

"No!"

He chuckled. "Good. So why don't we go, then?"

"Che." Rhyolite suddenly avoided the other's gaze. He crossed his arms.

"Come on, Echizen-kun. It'll be good for you." He leaned in close and winked. "Maybe they'll even give you a lollipop."

The boy glowered.

"My bad." Ogata thought a moment, and then his face lit up. "Well, then instead how about you and I get ice cream afterward?" He looked ridiculously excited at the prospect. Pointing behind him to Santiago, he whispered, "You know, she's a health freak, so she complains whenever I eat any kind of junk food. But I think I might get away with it if you help me."

Ryoma frowned. "Please?" Ogata pleaded, giving the boy his patented Puppy Dog Look of Doom.

"No."

Ogata stood back up, a small frown wrinkling his brows. "Aw, but I love ice cream."

That nearly brought a derisive chuckle out of Ryoma. The freshman glanced over his shoulder at his dad, who shrugged. He turned back to Ogata. He himself **had **thought about stitches for the cut on his hand… . "Che. Fine."

"Great!" Ogata beamed.

* * *

"Okay, Echizen-kun," began the doctor as he entered the small exam room, eyes on the chart in his hand. The door whooshed shut behind him, sealing the group in with a faint antiseptic odor. The brown-haired doctor looked up, gaze flicking from Ryoma who sat on the exam table, to Nanjiroh, to Ogata and Santiago leaning against a wall, and finally to the male CSI in the corner, before returning to the boy. "I see here on your chart that the nurse already did the basics – blood pressure and the like."

There was an uncomfortable silence as the middle-aged man watched Ryoma. The freshman finally pointed out grumpily, "That's not a question."

He looked startled. "No. No, I suppose it wasn't." He nervously adjusted the lapels of his standard-issue white coat and smoothed down his bushy eyebrows. "All right, then," he muttered as he pulled a wheeled stool out from beneath the supply shelves and sat down. "How are you doing today?"

Ryoma's reply of, "Fine," was nearly imperceptible. He shifted. So many people he didn't know in such a small space scorched him with claustrophobia. He wished they would all just leave him alone.

The doctor frowned slightly as he assessed Ryoma's features. Leaning in uncomfortably close to his face, the doctor inquired, "How well can you see out of this black eye?"

"It's okay," the boy muttered.

"Do you wear contacts?"

"No."

The doctor pursed his lips in thought. "It looks like the right side of your head is a bit swollen, too," he murmured, half to himself. Snapping on a pair of latex gloves, he rose to his feet. As he brought his hands up to probe through the boy's ebony hair, Ryoma leaned out of his reach, eyes wary. "I'm just going to check out this bruise, okay, Echizen-kun?" The freshman forced himself to hold still.

Retreating, the doctor wrote a few notes of his findings, and then set aside the clipboard. Settling back onto the stool, he said, "This assault happened a few days ago, right?"

_Assault?_ Somehow, Ryoma had never quite thought of it like that.

After leveling disapproval at the other adults in the room, the doctor asked softly, "Why didn't you come in earlier?"

Ryoma only blinked at him.

"Well, that's okay. You're here now, so why don't we see what's under these… ." As he spoke, he patted the boy's knee reassuringly, causing Ryoma to jump. "Oh, sorry again. I didn't mean to startle you." He gestured to the boy's wrist. "May I?" Ryoma gave a hesitant affirmative. Lifting gently the boy's right hand off of his knee, the doctor unwrapped the gauze. After studying the two parallel abrasions on the boy's wrist, his thick eyebrows raised and he glanced up at Ryoma's bruised face. Without a word, he set that hand down and moved on to the other one. He frowned at what lay under the gauze.

As he reached behind him for a sterile wipe the doctor queried, "What made this cut?"

Ryoma took a shuddering breath. Hazel jumped to his father's tense face and then back to his knees. "Glass."

Nanjiroh's mouth thinned to a mere pencil line. Santiago shared a meaningful look with Ogata. Her partner's brow wrinkled worriedly, and he nodded.

Just before the doctor pressed wipe to skin, the slender man in the corner sprang forward. "Wait!" He seemed startled at his own outburst, but still tentatively lifted the camera that was slung around his neck. "Evidence," he whispered.

Ryoma snorted. Idiots, all of them.

The doctor said, "Of course." Ryoma tensed under his grip as the CSI drew closer. "It's okay, Echizen-kun. Just relax." The boy frowned at him.

Once the man had photographed both of the twelve-year-old's hands, he told Ryoma, "I need to get some pictures of your face, so hold still." Once he'd taken a few more shots, he retreated to his corner.

The doctor resumed cleaning the wound and the skin around it of dried blood. Then he studied it. "Well, it looks like you did a good job of cleaning it when it was fresh. It's not infected. And I don't see any glass pieces still left in the wound. But I'm afraid you'll probably have to live with a scar, as it's much too late to stitch."

Ryoma sighed.

The doctor set the freshman's hand down, gathered up the gauze piled in his lap and dropped it in the trash. Spinning around, he opened a cupboard and withdrew a large, colorful adhesive bandage, which he then gently pressed over Ryoma's cut. The boy blinked down at it skeptically.

"All right, I'm going to need you to take off your shirt. Would you like less company?"

"Hai," he answered.

Santiago and Ogata pushed away from the wall and exited, followed by Nanjiroh. "We'll be right outside, kiddo," called the young man. Ryoma scowled.

The man in the corner shifted from foot to foot, murmuring, "Sorry." With a forefinger, he pushed his thick, black glasses higher up his nose.

The doctor switched his attention back to the boy. "Okay, Echizen-kun. Please remove your shirt."

Reluctantly, he did as he was told. The man in the corner gasped. Under their combined scrutiny Ryoma shivered. His athletic upper body was mottled all over with bruises; some areas were completely violet, yet a few others remained pristine. Around his neck burned two large handprints – a clear attempt at strangulation.

The doctor's voice carried a tone of worry. "That looks painful. Are you taking anything?"

Ryoma refused to meet their eyes. "Aspirin."

"Oh! The bruises haven't gotten worse, have they? Aspirin is an anticoagulant."

Surprised, the boy merely shook his head.

"All right. But just in case, you should start taking acetaminophen instead." The doctor gestured the CSI forward. Ryoma hunched over a bit as the man began snapping pictures. He shuffled around the boy to photograph his side and front. The man then backed out of the way again as the doctor scooted closer on his stool.

He gently probed the boy's injured ribs, wrenching a hiss from him. "Sorry. But it looks like your ribs aren't broken, so that's good." He stood to perform a similar assessment on Ryoma's back. "Okay," he murmured to himself. Straightening and walking back around, the doctor returned to his stool and scribbled some illegible notes on the chart for a time.

He set down his pen, scanning the half-naked boy. "I see a hint of gauze around your right ankle, so if you could remove your shoes and socks… ." Ryoma gingerly complied. Once again, his cut was examined, photographed, cleaned, and rebandaged. Then it was lowered back to the floor with an admonition to take it easy.

"I'm sorry about this, Echizen-kun, but now I need you to take off the rest of your clothes."

Ryoma stared at him in horror. "Don't want to."

The doctor sighed. "I know it's a bit uncomfortable, but I need to assess all of your injuries." Gesturing to the CSI, he added, "And the police need to take photos for evidence."

Fear threatened to drown him. The anger that followed on its heels, though, was much safer. Glaring at the doctor, Ryoma slid off the exam table, shucked his remaining clothes and stood nude, quivering – whether from anger or mortification, he didn't know. Tempting though it may be to fold his arms across his groin or even his chest, Ryoma felt it would be less embarrassing to stand erect, and so he forced himself to do so.

The camera flash flared yellow across the swirling colors on the boy's closed eyelids. A few interminable moments later, he no longer heard click of the shutter. Ryoma cracked an eye.

"Echizen-kun," the doctor questioned worriedly, "How did this bruising happen?"

Something in the man's tone made Ryoma open his eyes the rest of the way and turn his head to look. He almost griped, _"Which bruising?" _but then he discovered what the other meant.

Standing behind the boy, the doctor's gaze was trained on the boy's buttocks. Ryoma flushed and shrugged it off, facing forward again.

The doctor straightened from his scrutiny, returned to his stool and asked, "Do bowel movements give you any pain?"

Ryoma's eyes bugged out a bit. "Um… yeah," he murmured.

"How much does it hurt, on a scale of one to ten, ten being excruciating?"

"Uh… three?"

"Has there been any blood in your stool?"

"No."

"Well, that's good then at least." With a sigh, the doctor adjusted his already pressed white coat and announced, "You may get dressed now. And please excuse us. I need to speak with your father and the police a moment."

Bewildered, Ryoma was left alone in the small, sterile room.

"Sometimes I hate this job," the doctor muttered to himself as he closed the door. In the hall, he faced the four adults with arms folded. He sighed again. "This is a grey area in doctor-patient confidentiality. I don't really feel comfortable sharing this... but judging by the marks and his reactions, I suspect that this was not just physical assault, but sexual as well."

Horror spread across their faces, and in Santiago's case, was quickly smothered. Nanjiroh's mouth formed soundless syllables. Finally, he managed to whisper, "Are you sure?"

The doctor shook his head sadly. "It's been too long since the attack. Even if we did do a rape kit, there's almost no evidence left after 72 hours."

Nanjiroh covered his mouth with a shaking hand, staring through the doctor at the closed door. "Is he okay?"

The doctor sighed. "He has extensive bruising, a few abrasions and cuts… ." He maintained eye contact, adding, "He also has two bruises around his neck in the shape of hands."

Within Nanjiroh's eyes an abyss of pained rage began to swirl, gathering itself for a maelstrom. The doctor stepped back once involuntarily, swallowing, more than glad that he wasn't the intended victim of that protective fury.

"Sensei," spoke Santiago, unaware of that intense expression, "is there nothing more you can do?"

The doctor swallowed again and smoothed out his eyebrows. "I could get blood and urine samples to test for any possible STDs. But beyond that, I can really only advise rest, painkillers, and hot packs for the bruises."

The doctor dared to turn back to Nanjiroh. "However, I can at least give you a note to excuse your son's absence from school."

Ryoma's dad struggled to control the fury and scratched out, "Oh, right. Thank you."

"Be sure to take him to a good therapist," the doctor added.

His eyes finally cleared. "Hai. Arigatou gozaimasu, sensei."

Santiago rotated toward Nanjiroh with a weary sigh. "Speaking of samples, we'll need to get a swab of DNA from your son, if that's okay. Also, if you still have the clothes – unwashed – that he wore when he was attacked, we'd like to collect that as well."

"Anything to get that bastard behind bars," Nanjiroh agreed.

* * *

"Ah," Ogata sighed happily, resting one hand on his stomach. "That was delicious!" He sat up a little, ignoring the scowl of the Hispanic woman beside him. "How's yours, Echizen-kun?"

Ryoma merely stared up at him from beneath his bangs as he raised another spoonful of chocolate ice cream to his lips. His heaping bowl was halfway demolished by now.

Ogata smiled at him, rose to his feet and carried his empty bowl back to the break room. Upon returning, he glanced at his partner, then across his desk at Nanjiroh. "It's a little loud in here," he hinted, gesturing around the busy police station. "Why don't we go somewhere a bit quieter?"

Ryoma froze with his spoon halfway to his mouth. Cautiously, it continued its journey as its owner eyed Ogata.

"C'mon Echizen-kun!" he chirped. "Take your ice cream with you."

Rolling his eyes, Ryoma trudged after the two police officers, settling onto the metal folding chair that they offered him and starting studiously back in on his treat.

Ogata sat down and rested his elbows on his knees, leaning toward the twelve-year-old. "We just need to ask you a few questions and then you can go home, if that's okay." He glanced at Nanjiroh. "We'd like to record this." Santiago set a small tape recorder on the desk. Ryoma's upper lip lifted angrily as he glared at it. It wasn't **him**they asked permission from – ever. It should be his decision.

Ogata started in. "Echizen-kun, a few days ago you were on a cruise with the other Seigaku regulars_, _correct?"

"Why do you ask things that you already know the answers to?"

Ogata was taken aback. "Um... to double-check?"

Ryoma smirked. "Mada mada dane."

"Well," he tried again, slightly flustered, "why don't you just tell me what happened, then, in your own words?"

The boy ate another spoonful, glowering pointedly at the tape recorder.

"Echizen-kun?"

Still, he did not answer.

Ogata took a deep calming breath. "All right, fine. I'll start. This is what we know. You and the other regulars were invited by Sakurafubuki Hikomaru to play tennis against his team. Other passengers gambled on the matches." Ryoma's expression remained blank as Ogata continued. "But after the first one, your whole team walked off the court. Sound about right?"

Ryoma nodded, albeit reluctantly. "What happened after you and your teammates left the court?" Ogata inquired as he reached toward an inner breast pocket for a notebook and pen.

Wide hazel eyes followed the gesture. The freshman's knuckles whitened around his grip on the spoon. "Echizen-kun?" Santiago asked uncertainly, causing Ogata to notice and pause. "What's wrong?"

Ryoma reminded himself to swallow the ice cream melting in his mouth. "N-nothing," he muttered, even as a memory flashed of another, older hand withdrawing a black handgun from a pocket like that.

Nanjiroh couldn't stand to remain silent anymore. "Ryoma," he exclaimed, shoving an edge of the boy's chair around to face him. "Please, just tell me what happened." His voice lowered. "The doctor said he thought you were sexually assaulted."

Ryoma gaped at him. Then his entire body flashed with the heat of anger. That had been **his **secret! How naive was he to have trusted that stupid doctor, after what had happened? Discolored face flaming, he shot to his feet. "Bastard!"

"Ryoma, he was only trying to help," Nanjiroh explained.

"No! No way!" The freshman shook his head violently. "He doesn't know anything! Nothing **happened**!"

"Ryoma," his dad pleaded.

The boy's eyes filled with tears. "NO!" he yelled, as though his mere denial could erase fact. "No, he didn't do anything to me! He DIDN'T!"

"Who didn't?" Santiago asked gently. "We never mentioned anyone."

Ryoma whipped his head toward her. "No one!" he snarled, smacking the tape recorder onto the floor. He snatched up the ceramic bowl of ice cream in both hands and threw it, shattering it against the wall behind the two officers. All three adults jumped. Melting chocolate slid slowly down the wall like blood.

Ryoma stood there, chest heaving, fists clenched. He whirled around and kicked his chair with his good foot, again and again and again. A short, wordless cry punctuated each kick.

Nanjiroh reached out to grip Ryoma's forearm, but pulled back at the last moment. "Ryoma, stop it. Look at me."

The boy ignored him.

"Please?" came Nanjiroh's voice.

Ryoma's lower lip began to quiver as he stared at the battered chair. Slowly, his large hazel eyes turned to his dad. He blinked, and the waiting teardrops slid slowly down his cheeks. His face twisted in misery. With a wail, he tackled his dad and grabbed him tight. He keened.

Nanjiroh hugged him back just as tight and rocked them both gently back and forth. His son sobbed, "It hurt! God, Dad, it… it hurt so much!"

Nanjiroh rested his cheek against the top of his son's head. "I know, Ryoma. I'm here," he breathed. "I'm here."

Ryoma gripped the back of his dad's robes with both fists as he screamed and cried. He didn't care that the sobs hurt his sore stomach or that the tight hug pressed into his bruises. It didn't **matter.**All that did was the slow swaying forward and back and the reassurance crooned into his hair.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** I live! Sorry, I fell victim to my perfectionism again, and I couldn't write anything PoT-related. So much for faster updates, huh? They practically died completely. *winces*

The reference from the last chapter was _Busty Asian Beauties_, if you didn't catch that. It's from Supernatural; it's one of Dean Winchester's favorite porn sites.

**

* * *

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**Chapter 6**

**Friday Evening:**

Ryoma stood on the tennis court in his backyard, tapping a chartreuse ball up and down on the edge of the racket. After every three taps – just for variety – he dropped it to the ground, and then he drummed again for a few beats. The vibrations from the tightly strung racket traveled up his right hand and into his chest: _Boing,_ tap, tap, tap. _One, _two, three, four.

Shifting his feet gingerly, he lowered his cap even more to cover his fiery hazel eyes. Ryoma's blood itched. He felt caged – betrayed by his own weak body. This alien inactivity… The boy's lip lifted.

_One, _two, three, four.

Raised voices drifted out from the open kitchen window. Ryoma let the ball drop and bounce away as he listened. There – that was the pitch and cadence of his father's voice, but the twelve-year-old couldn't pick out any words – until they got louder.

"NO! THAT'S ENOUGH! **HE'S** HAD ENOUGH!" Nanjiroh bellowed.

Ryoma raised his eyebrows and started toward the house. As he pulled open the back door, the volume increased. Down the hallway, the boy could see his father blocking the front entry, Nanjiroh's back drawn tight with fury.

"HE HAS NOTHING TO SAY TO YOU! NOW GET OFF MY PROPERTY, AND DON'T YOU _EVER_ COME BACK!" The normally cheerful, easy-going man slammed the door in their faces and whirled around.

Ryoma remained frozen just inside the back door, staring down the corridor. Nanjiroh stiffened, something unreadable flitting across his expression before it was quickly stifled.

"Dad?" Ryoma questioned, once he'd limped up to Nanjiroh. His expression stated clearly, _What was that?_

Nanjiroh dismissed the occurrence with a too-nonchalant flip of his hand. "It was nothing."

Ryoma twisted his lips skeptically.

The man couldn't hold his son's gaze. As his own slid away, he spotted the racket in the freshman's hand. A bit desperately, he changed the subject. "Come on, I'll play a game with you." He smiled, winking. "I'll even give you a handicap, if you want." He moved to walk down the hallway.

The boy scoffed. Pushing past his father, he yanked open the door just in time to see a news van pull away from the curb.

Nanjiroh's protests fell silent as the twelve-year-old slowly slid closed the door. "Ryoma?" The boy simply stood there, staring through to the van in his memory. His posture remained unchanged – no despairing slouch, no angry bristling, no inwardly clenching withdrawal. Finally he turned around.

"How long?" he asked neutrally.

Nanjiroh closed his eyes, sincerely regretting that vociferous shredding of his self-control. "They've been coming since Wednesday."

Ryoma tugged at the brim of his cap. "Mm," he hummed noncommittally. Spinning the racket absentmindedly in his hand, he pondered this new information.

He wasn't usually one to mope. He never had been and probably never would. That only made things all the more difficult now when he didn't have the energy, nor, if he was truthful with himself, occasionally the inclination, to stand up and do something about his problems.

What was there really to do, though? As if it wasn't bad enough that it happened in the first place, now people were broadcasting the worst moment of his entire life – with or without his consent. He was surprised only that he hadn't considered it earlier, though. These were reporters, and if he'd learned anything about them from the tennis circuit, they were bloodhounds when they caught the scent of a story. There was no dissuading them.

Well, that was that, then. With a huff, Ryoma looked up. "Okay. Let's play."

After a moment of shock, Nanjiroh's face split wide in a relieved grin.

* * *

Santiago stalked into the interrogation room and shut the door behind her with deliberately careful, menacing slowness. The latch clicked loudly into the strike plate, reverberating throughout the derelict little space.

"Sakurafubuki," the Hispanic woman snapped, pressing a file onto the wobbly metal table with splayed fingertips.

The man raised a brow, taking note that she dropped the honorific. "Yes, ma'am?"

She sneered. "Don't give me that. So **polite**_._" Bracing both hands on the table now, she leaned in, looming with the force of her anger. "I know what you've done," she hissed into his face.

He raised the other eyebrow, smiling slightly. "Is that so?"

Huffing, she let a dark smirk spread her lips. "And you're going to spend the rest of your days in jail."

Sakurafubuki's thin lips twitched again with self-satisfaction. He met her dark eyes. "You would not be here if that was true."

Straightening, the woman pulled back her chair and settled in it, her posture as erect as ever. From the pocket in her uniform came a tape recorder.

Sakurafubuki looked from the recorder now resting on the file folder to Santiago's face and back. "Must I ask what that is?" he questioned lightly.

Without shifting her gaze from his eyes, she pressed a single, dark-skinned finger against the play button.

_A boy's distraught voice began speaking, thick with tears. "And then… then… ." The voice hitched, hesitating._

_A man softly encouraged, "It's okay."_

"_No, it's not!" the boy cried. "It's not at all okay!" There was a sniffle and a shuddering, calming breath, and then he began again. "We… we burst into the room. And… that man was… ."_

"_Do you know who he was?" the man interrupted, not unkindly. "For the record."_

"_Hai. It was S-sakurafubuki."_

"_Thank you. Please continue. I know it's hard."_

_The boy must have nodded in the silence. "Sakurafubuki was… was…," a thick swallow, "__**raping **__E-echizen." _

Sakurafubuki's cavernous black eyes bored into Santiago's. She stopped the tape. Neither spoke for a long minute; the fluorescent ceiling panel flickered once.

"That was Shuichiro Oishi." The officer waited. "Don't you have anything to say?"

He shrugged, stating lightly, "Witnesses are often manipulated by the questioners, who only hear what they wish to hear." He watched with amusement as her eyes grew wider. "This is particularly the case when those witnesses are impressionable children."

"You think you can brush this off?" Santiago exclaimed. "Three witnesses' and a victim's testimony are hardly weak evidence!"

"Four **children **pose little threat."

She let out a disbelieving chuckle. "You are one spectacularly arrogant prick."

"You may think so, but my confidence is founded in truth," he sneered.

Suspicion narrowed her eyes. Looking him up and down, she remarked, "You are quite confident today. Much more so than last time." Frowning, the woman demanded, "What happened since then?"

The infuriating man only shrugged.

"Do you realize that with these boys' testimony, we can lock you away for the rest of your life? You're looking at **nine **counts of kidnapping and one of an indecent act with a child! This doesn't concern you?" Her hands clenched.

"Of course it is of concern to me. However, I have an excellent lawyer, among other things." His dark eyes flashed a silver cunning.

"Your **lawyer**," Santiago spat, "can't get you out of the hole you've dug, no matter how much you pay him. There isn't enough money in the world for that." Gathering up her things, she stormed out of the room, nearly running into her young partner.

Ogata instinctively grasped her upper arms to stop them both from toppling, then stepped back, dropping his hands. "Sorry."

Santiago shook her head, straightening the papers that had nearly been jostled out of the folder and onto the hallway floor. "No, I'm the one who's sorry." Shooting a glare over her shoulder at the closed door, she admitted, "He just… unnerves me."

Ogata cocked his head, looking blank. "Really? He actually seems weirdly normal to me. Which could be a bit unnerving, I guess."

She shot him a strange look. "Yeah." Shaking her head, she propped her back against the closest wall. Her tan face aged in utter exhaustion. "I just… this country!" she growled, brandishing a fist. "It defines rape as being forced intercourse between a male and a female." She closed her eyes and dropped her hand. "That poor boy… ." Forcing herself to stand upright, she met her partner's naïve gaze with her own world-weary one. "There's no proper justice to be had. The closest we've got is an act of indecency."

Ogata's face darkened at last in understanding. "Oh."

"Yes, oh," she mocked. Then, "Sorry." Santiago scrubbed at her eyes. "Come on. I don't want to stand near that pig any longer than I have to."

He lifted a reluctant finger. "Actually, that's what I was here for. I have a letter from his lawyer and… now is as good a time as any."

Her face hardened. "Fine. I'll be at my desk."

Once she strode off, Ogata pushed open the door to the interrogation room. "Sakurafubuki-san," he greeted.

The man looked up, a genuine smile curling his thin lips. "Ogata-kun."

The ever-present eagerness so like that of a clumsy puppy melted off the officer's face, leaving in its wake an uncanny craftiness. "The recording devices are off, so we may speak freely."

The older man visibly relaxed for the first time. With camaraderie born of long acquaintance, he asked, "What do you have for me?"

"A reply," came the bland answer. Ogata pulled an unmarked envelope out of a pocket and passed it over. "Don't read it here. It's not safe enough. And remember – destroy it afterward."

"Of course." Sakurafubuki awkwardly hid the envelope up the sleeve of his orange jumpsuit with his cuffed hands.

"The caution may be unwarranted, but we are trying to keep down the media coverage. If they ever caught wind of this…" He gave a light shrug. "That said," Ogata added with a hint of a scowl, "you do need to be more careful. My partner seems to be suspicious."

Sakurafubuki mulled it over, then nodded. "She is an intelligent woman. I will keep that in mind."

* * *

When two cops arrived at Kaidoh's house looking stern and asking him to give a statement, he knew exactly what had happened. "Oishi-senpai," he muttered.

* * *

**A/N 2:** That bit about the legal definition of rape is true, sad to say. It's in Japan's Penal Code.

Review?


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** *horrible, gurgling gasp* I _LIVE!_ *leaps upright and does victory dance, chanting in a sing-song voice* I wrote something, I wrote something!

Whew! I'm really sorry about that long, unannounced hiatus. Thank you all very much for your amazing patience for those of you who've been reading along, and welcome to those who have just tuned in. Special thanks go to KuroiYuki13. I told myself I wouldn't make excuses, and so . . . *deep breath* I won't. Oh, and I rewatched the movie. Turns out, I've been calling my villain Sakurafubuki Hikomaru this whole time, but it's actually Hikomaro – a one letter mistake at the end. Whoops! Oh well. I guess I'll just carry on with Hikomaru for continuity.

But anyway, because it's been so long that even_ I_ forgot what happened (which is really quite sad), here's a **recap **from the beginning of HS II 'til now. I bolded the timeline stuff, too, just for clarification. You're totally free to skip this. It was more for myself, anyway.

**Monday:** the events of _Hostage Situation_. To turn 20,000 words into one blunt sentence: Seigaku regulars go on cruise, get taken captive, beat up, and Ryoma gets raped.

**Chapter 1: Tuesday:** Ryoma returns from the cruise all bruised up, falls asleep on his bed. Nanjiroh comes in, sees him, freaks out, Ryoma doesn't explain anything and falls back asleep. Nanjiroh calls the coach (Ryuzaki Sumire), who doesn't know what's going on. Nanjiroh vows to find out. Ryoma wakes up the next morning (**Wednesday**) to see his dad sleeping beside him. Ryoma goes downstairs to watch TV.

**Chapter 2:** Awkward conversation between Nanako and Ryoma as Ryoma heads downstairs, his dad following behind. Nanjiroh joins Ryoma on the couch and tries to get him to explain what happened. Nanako again interrupts briefly. Ryoma hurries back upstairs and Nanjiroh lets him go. In his room, Ryoma breaks down and cries.

**Chapter 3:** Still in his room, Ryoma freaks out over his memories – feels vulnerable, exposed – and covers up all of his skin that he can. Earlier that **Wednesday morning**, the coach talks to the regulars and Tezuka tells her all that he knows of what happened. None of the three rescuers (Oishi, Kaidoh, Kawamura) say otherwise, and so only they know about the rape. **Tuesday: **interview between Sakurafubuki and the cop, Santiago Isabela. She says he could easily get 25 years in prison, he lawyers up. Sakurafubuki remembers when his boyfriend, Hiroshi, left him, who looks a lot like an older Ryoma or Ryoga.

**Chapter 4: Wednesday afternoon: **Ryoma peers at his unbandaged, cut left hand. Exiting the bathroom, he runs into his dad who says the regulars are at the house. Ryoma decides not to see them, heads to his room. Momo barges in, followed by the others who hover in the doorway. After some awkward conversation, Ryoma heads back downstairs to talk with them where there's more space. Inui notices shifty looks between Ryoma and the rescuers when they mention that the coach knows. The group agrees to have sushi at Kawamura's dad's place when Ryoma finally goes back to school. Outside, Nanjiroh and Ryuzaki talk.

**Chapter 5: Thursday late morning: **The cops, Santiago and Ogata Kenshin, come to the Echizen's house. Nanjiroh goes outside to fetch Ryoma, who very reluctantly agrees to go inside to see them. Upon seeing him, the cops decide to take him to the hospital. Ogata prods Ryoma into agreeing with charm and the promise of ice cream. Cue very awkward, semi-incompetent medical exam. A CSI takes photos. Doctor confides to cops and Nanjiroh of suspected sexual assault – too late after the fact to bother with rape kit. Nanjiroh gets doctor's note for school absence, the cops get Ryoma's old clothes from the "incident," doctor recommends counseling. At the station, Ryoma gets ice cream and an interview. Ryoma breaks down, and admits to the assault, but not in so many words; sobs on Nanjiroh's shoulder.

**Chapter 6: Friday evening: **As Ryoma stands outside on the tennis court, he hears Nanjiroh shouting inside the house. He goes to investigate; turns out reporters have been coming by **since Wednesday**. Ryoma agrees to a tennis match with his dad. Second interview between Santiago and Sakurafubuki: Santiago plays recording in which Oishi testifies Sakurafubuki raped Ryoma. Sakurafubuki brushes off the mounting evidence as nothing. Santiago leaves the room, talks to Ogata, reveals there's no real way to charge Sakurafubuki with rape as the laws stand – defines it as being between male and female – so closest they've got is act of indecency. Ogata goes into interrogation room, hands over a written reply of some sort. Ogata drops the happy-go-lucky façade, reveals he's known Sakurafubuki a long time. Kaidoh gets a visit from two cops and figures it was Oishi who cracked first.

*deep breath* Sheesh, that was long. And now (cue drumroll) onto chapter 7! Goodness, it'd better be at least as long as that recap, huh?

* * *

**Chapter 7**

**Early Monday Morning:**

Well, it was now one week to the day since . . . _that_, and Ryoma could finally scrape up enough energy to stay awake for long hours at a stretch. It amazed him how exhausting it was to be covered in bruises, though if he was honest with himself, he probably just didn't want to be awake. The waking world loomed harsh and constricting in comparison to his dreams. That tennis match with his dad? It lasted less than 20 minutes. Pathetic. He was pathetic.

Ryoma buried his head into his pillow and curled tighter beneath his bedspread. Sure, maybe he could even stand to talk at length now – potentially answer questions in class and such – now that it was a week after his near-suffocation, but the bruises . . . they were still stark and obvious on his neck, clearly hand-prints. God, and his _face!_ He had quite the shiner on his left eye, for one thing, plus a couple nice colorful bruises on his left jaw and a smaller one on his right cheek. Probably more than that, but who's counting? Those were just the obvious ones, anyway, the ones everyone would see at first glance – the ones beneath his clothes weren't all that humiliating, just painful to pressure.

He couldn't bear the thought of going to school like this. His classmates would look at him and they'd know. They'd know everything: he saw part of a newspaper article about the cruise-from-hell (the front page!) before Nanako hastily swiped if off the table. Oh, they didn't name names. No, not even they would be so indiscreet as that. But they mentioned a middle school tennis team on a cruise, and everyone in the tennis circuit knew exactly which one they were talking about. He was sure they all knew by now exactly which regular hadn't gone back to school yet either. As for everyone else at Seigaku, well . . . a single glance at his stupid face would tell them all they needed to know. "Look at the weakling. Can't protect himself worth anything." Or maybe, "Look at the freak. You know what happened to him, right? I thought that only happened to _girls._" Or what was almost worse: "I'm so, so sorry. Are you okay? Can I do anything for you?" And then there'd be that damning pity in their eyes.

A whimper escaped him, and he pulled an extra pillow to his chest. Please, don't make him go to school. Not yet. Let the bruises fade. No, see, he was still sleeping! Cut him some slack. He nearly died a week ago.

The thought jolted him. It was true. He nearly died. He'd stared down more than one barrel of a gun that day, yet it had never really registered that he could have died. One click and he'd be gone. Boom! He giggled a little, on the edge of hysteria. He snapped his fingers. Like that. One wrong move would be all it would have taken. Yet here he was, still alive, against all odds and all logic.

Why didn't he get shot? Why didn't . . . (he winced at even thinking the name) Sakurafubuki kill him? The man had pressed the gun against Ryoma's head and stated he would pull the trigger if the boy did not do exactly as he was told. So what did Ryoma do? The exact opposite by continuing to fight back. Even staring at the barrel of a gun and the man's unflinching gaze, Ryoma somehow did not realize the danger. With all logic, Sakurafubuki should have killed him.

He should have. Shut the kid up, run a tighter ship, get rid of anyone who could testify. It would have fixed so many problems for them both. Ryoma released the pillow, pressed his face into his forearms and gripped his hair tight in both fists. Why didn't he? _Why?_

* * *

Sakurafubuki sighed, tilting his head back to rest against the cold, block concrete wall of his cell. Thin, sickly yellow light trickled in from the small window set high in the wall to his left, shooting invisibly across the cell, sliding smoothly between the bars on his right, and falling onto the floor of the neighboring cell. Sakurafubuki sat on the spindly bed – with a lumpy, insubstantial pallet that might as well have been filled with porcupine-like straw for as comfortable as it was. The bed, and across the room, the dirty toilet and sink, were the lone objects in the room.

He had absolutely nothing with which to pass the time – not even so much as a magazine. He could only count the number of blocks in the wall so many times. Frustration tangled with boredom, setting him on edge. He needed to be out and about, striding confidently here and there, directing men toward the highest profit and greatest productivity.

Where did the thrill of his exciting, cutthroat world disappear to?

Sakurafubuki sighed again, mouth twisting with dislike. That so-called reply that his young policeman friend, Ogata-kun, had passed on to him actually said little of substance. An entire page of code boiled down to one word: _wait. _After that latest interrogation by that woman police officer (why they still bothered to question him, he did not know), and he had returned to his cell, Sakurafubuki eagerly tore open the envelope tucked into his sleeve. By the time he got to the end, his mouth had been hanging open in disbelief.

After all that he had done for them, all they had to say in reply was "Wait." His lip lifted in a sneer. It had been couched in oh-so-formal wording, but rest assured, Sakurafubuki heard the subtle rebuke. He had done his best on that cruise – yes, with some tweaking to their plan to add his own intention for his Ryoma, but that should not have thrown it off too horribly. Unfortunately, it was thrown off. Such things happened, but their end goal was accomplished nonetheless, so what did his arrest matter? Damn it, he had already waited for an entire week! Was that not long enough? Did they not realize that the longer they let him sit and fester in this blasted jail cell, the more difficult it would be to get him out? The press was bound to get the story, if they had not already, and the police were even now gathering evidence against him. He had not believed that those _children_ could have escaped and run rampant across his ship the way they had, and so did not arrange any contingency plans for it. Surely there was evidence aplenty because of that lack. Neither had he expected the high school boys on his own tennis team to betray him, switching loyalties to those dratted Seigaku regulars.

Sakurafubuki heaved a breath, scrunching his eyes closed. Initially he had been furious at their desertion, but now he was simply tired, tired of all the painful betrayals that seemed as though they came from all fronts, even the most unlikely. Like Ryoga Echizen. Now that one he probably should have expected – simply as brother to his fiery Ryoma, adopted or no.

Two years ago, a then-16-year-old Ryoga was perfectly happy to pick up and move away from his foster parents, joining Sakurafubuki. For only being 16, Ryoga was quite worldly; the two of them precisely understood their agreement: win a few fixed matches or blackmail a few foes and in exchange, get out from beneath his foster father's thumb. Simple. Quaint, even.

Yet it all fell apart that fateful day, one week ago. He certainly never expected any further contact from Ryoga. The boy may have been willing to bend a few laws – even to the breaking point – but not if that would hurt his little brother. Sakurafubuki shook his head ruefully, rubbing his hair across the wall. No, Ryoga may seem a little coarse, but he loved his otouto.

Well, so did Sakurafubuki. He had tried relationships with men above the age of consent, but they never truly satisfied him; perhaps that was why they always failed. Now the one with his Ryoma . . . Ryoma did not leave him. He had been ripped away unwillingly by those Seigaku regulars and Sakurafubuki's own untimely arrest. There was no betrayal there; he was too innocent for such deceit. Ryoma understood now how very much Sakurafubuki loved him.

He smiled. Soon now, Sakurafubuki would be released from this noisome cell and all would be well. _Everything._


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** If all goes as I hope, the next update will be in a week. Oh, and for awhile there, I was experimenting, trying to see how long of a sentence I could write, and how many in a row. (I think the longest had 82 words.) So that's what's up with those mega paragraphs. This is self-beta'ed, as always, though I got lazy, so let me know if there any typos or other mistakes - which reminds me: I have no clue what Rinko's job is, or if they ever said, so I just made it up.

Many thanks to my reviewers for the last chapter,_ Kuroi Yuki 13, Nicole13-1991, QueenLucy15, Tsubame0104, _and _Lord of the Plushies._ You guys rock.

**Chapter 8**

**Monday: **

Ryoga Echizen was being followed – he was sure of it now. Ever since noon, the little hairs on his nape prickled in warning, but now hours later he had just finally spotted a flash of whomever was following him. The man – probably a man, those shoulders were rather broad for a woman – ducked quickly into an alley the instant Ryoga turned around, but the movement was so hasty, he could be none other than a tail. Yet Ryoga's suspicion would not have been aroused had the man simply carried on walking normally. Several other people also walked along this residential street with them, after all. He would have blended right in if not for that hasty movement. Still, several hours had passed before Ryoga managed to spot him, so the man wasn't too terribly awful at his job; he was just mediocre.

Though the question still remained as to why someone would order a tail, Ryoga had a few suspicions as to whom would do so. Actually, he had one: Sakurafubuki Hikomaru and/or affiliates. Ryoga would like nothing better than to confront the man following him, demanding explanations and – if he disliked the answers – exacting retaliation. He heaved a swelling sigh, a stretching sigh that he felt through his chest and down into his arms and legs, a calming sigh. He needed to remain calm; a confrontation on this street, so close to the Echizens' house, would surely attract the wrong kind of attention. But did he dare continue on, bringing this man with his musk of criminality, to the front steps of his little brother's home? Yet, if this man knew enough to follow him, Ryoga Echizen, he most likely already knew of Ryoma.

Ryoga's choice was fairly straightforward, then. He'd deal with the man after he visited his one-time family. Ryoga smirked, making a mental note to stay late, thus forcing the man to wait in tedious boredom for his emergence – a petty thing to do, certainly, yet he'd do it with lip-smacking, purposeful satisfaction. He dismissed the matter from his mind as much as he could; when dealing with Sakurafubuki, such things as being followed had happened before and unfortunately probably would again. More important and more nerve-racking was this upcoming encounter with Ryoma and his former foster family. Tension tightened Ryoga's shoulders as he drew near the Echizen home, filled with a concern for Ryoma as well as a lingering resentment for the brevity of the happy times he had had with them in America, an all-too-short contact seemingly dismissed out of hand, or so his young mind was once convinced, a dismissal of him as a person once the Echizens decided to move back to Japan – irrational thoughts that he still harbored despite his conscious efforts and adult understanding. It was a resentment that he hated in himself, yet could not quite manage to overcome. He hated the jealousy, the green-eyed envy that stared back at him in the mirror every morning. But such bitterness paled in the bright glare of recent events, shrinking into insignificance – hence his current cautious, concerned venture into dubious territory.

Preoccupied with such gloomy introspection, his legs on autopilot, Ryoga nearly missed the flash of movement in the corner of his eye. It was an effort of will not to whirl, visibly tense up, or hesitate in his steps, but to carry on seemingly obliviously, all the while his senses soared to hyper alert. There, the flash came again; the navy-clad man following him had drawn even and was now keeping pace on the other side of the street. The man was fairly tall, perhaps equal to him in height or a bit taller. From what little Ryoga could see without looking directly at him, the man was also quite muscular; it would probably take two of him to make up this man, and Ryoga wasn't particularly small. Almost more alarming, however, was his aggressive stride, filled with purpose and coiled potential. Perhaps he was not so mediocre as Ryoga first thought, if the man hadn't actually planned on following him for days. Perhaps he wanted to be seen.

Tch. What a pain. Ryoga ran a hand through his green-highlighted black locks. So much for his first plan of dealing with the man after his visit with his brother – a thought which simultaneously annoyed and relieved him. He quickly took in the immediate surroundings: single-family homes lined each side of the paved street, most with fences that precluded an easy shortcut or a quick dash into the shadows of a house; one telephone pole-cum-streetlamp stood at the end of each block, though in mid-afternoon that mattered little; next-to-no traffic ran on this road, but the cross-street just up ahead rushed with cars.

An abrupt gasp and a female voice calling his name caught Ryoga's attention, seeing at last the woman approaching him with a wave, surprise and pleasure on her face. He paled. The woman was none other than one Rinko Echizen – whom he was not at all prepared to meet here on the sidewalk, several blocks yet from his destination, being followed by a man who now appeared intent on violence.

This was not good. Not good at all.

Ryoga forced a smile for her, pretending not to notice the man on the other side of the street who was in fact swallowing most of his attention. The teen stopped a few meters away from Rinko, greeting smoothly, "Hello. You look well."

She drew up before him with a pleasant smile, exclaiming, "Well, thank you! As do you, Ryoga." She set down the black briefcase in her left hand, propping it upright against her leg. The two of them bowed. Rinko rose back up with an analytical look in her eye, and she scanned him up and down with a hand on her shapely hip. "Imagine meeting you here. You're so grown up now!" She patted his shoulder maternally. "How are you doing these days?"

Ryoga inclined his head. "Good, thanks." The navy-clad man had stopped walking the instant he himself did. Oh, God. Don't come over here, please – not right now, not with her here. "Are you headed home?"

Rinko swept a stray strand of deep brown hair behind her ear as she answered, "Yes, yes." She held her hands out to the sides, glancing down the length of her somewhat crumpled, black dress suit. "I've just gotten back from a business trip, and eager to get home. Is that why _you're_ here? For a visit?" Ryoga nodded. "Excellent!" she cried, snatching up her valise and taking his arm in hers. Ryoga suppressed his wince at the unwanted touch; he'd forgotten how touchy-feely this woman was. At least she took his left arm, leaving his dominant one free . . . just in case things went awry. Rinko went on, "Well, come on, then. We'll go together." She spun him around to face the way he'd come, then leaned in to whisper as they walked, "This way is faster, dear."

Sure enough, the man across the street turned as well to follow, leaving subterfuge in the dust. He probably already figured out that Ryoga saw him, anyway. Damn it! Could this situation get any worse?

Don't answer that.

Ryoga took a steadying breath, struggling to think through his growing anxiety that was doubtlessly radiating tension down his arm, though Rinko had yet to notice. What would a normal person do when they realized they were being followed? Ryoga pursed his lips. They probably called the police. That was eminently logical. Why hadn't he thought of that sooner? Well, probably because every other time he was being followed, that wasn't a feasible option, although even now, he didn't have a cell phone on him. He was too paranoid about it being bugged.

"Rinko," Ryoga broke in to the woman's chatter, "do you have a mobile?"

She blinked blankly up at him then dropped his arm, slowing down to a complete stop as she began to dig through her various pockets, muttering, "You're still free to call me Kaa-san, you know."

When she handed over her phone, Ryoga met her questioning gaze with a piercing one of his own, saying mildly, "Rinko, then." The out-of-place intensity in his expression hit her then, judging by her abruptly straightened back and narrowed mouth, while confusion flitted across her face and an eyebrow lifted in insistent query, much like he was sure her face looked in the courtroom, staring down a recalcitrant witness. Ryoga met her look head-on but said nothing, merely taking up her arm and carrying them further away from their uncomfortably exposed spot in the middle of the block.

He dialed one-handed and brought the phone up to his ear. "Yes," he spoke matter-of-factly to the emergency operator, "a man is following me."

Rinko gasped in stunned disbelief, immediately glancing around. He shook her by the arm, then when she lifted her gaze to his, he leveled a glared at her and shook his head fractionally. _Act normally_, he mouthed. "For about three hours," he quietly answered into the receiver, "as far as I can tell." He then informed the woman of the intersection he and Rinko were approaching, as well as the Echizens' address, and described his tail as well as possible, for never having looked directly at him – which, upon reflection, might very well have been conspicuous in and of itself. Ah, well . . . hindsight. When they finally reached the intersection at a casual stroll, Ryoga told the operator that he must hang up and did so despite her protests. He handed the phone back to a puzzled and agitated Rinko, leaning down to murmur while keeping his eyes on the passing cars, "We're going to walk calmly to your house, then lock all the doors and windows. Chibisuke is at school, right?" Holing up at the Echizen house was probably their best bet for now; this was civilian territory, and the cops could take care of that lone man. Ryoga's eyes widened infinitesimally, then tightened. What if he wasn't the only one? What if he had showed himself in order to draw attention, and thus be a sort of decoy, allowing any others to hide in plain sight? Oh, God, please let that not be the situation.

Rinko, if possible, looked even more startled and worried at his question. "Why wouldn't Ryoma be at school?"

Ryoga frowned. Was it somehow possible that she had no idea what had happened a week ago? Instead of answering her, he asked, "How long have you been on your business trip?"

She frowned back. "About two weeks. Why? What does that have to do with anything?" Her voice squeaked near the end, beginning to verge toward panic.

Well, if she honestly didn't know, it wasn't his place to inform her – nor was this the time. He shook his head, briefly tightening his grip on her arm in reassurance. "Never mind – just double-checking. We'll just do as I said: gather up everyone into the house and lock the doors."

Rinko nodded, a little too fast. "Yeah, okay. Okay."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Happy belated Solstice and early Christmas! Shout-outs to **Matsuri, FireAndPowder, aku no tensai, Jaganthunder, Bokmal14, Shia Zen, silverskies87, lifeofparty2, Lord of the Plushies, Meadoresgayguys,** and **ShamelesslyUsed** for reviewing the last chapter. Thanks to everyone for your patience. I'm incredibly slow.

Y'all ready for some angst? Great. Have a roller coaster ride.

**Chapter 9**

**(Still) Monday:**

When he rolled to a stop in front of the Echizen home, Momo was quite startled to see his kouhai's cousin, Nanako, leaning against the wall beside the gate. She pushed off the stonework and took the few steps to reach his side. "Ah, Momo-san!" she exclaimed with a smile. "I'm glad you're here."

He chuckled, rubbing a hand on the back of his head. "Ah, well, you did call me. It's no real trouble. Echizen and I usually go to school together."

She clasped her hands in front of her. "Yes, I know." She glanced over her shoulder at the house, bereft of all movement. "He should be out here soon."

Momo settled back on the bike seat, folding his arms and giving her a mischievous grin. "Yeah, he's usually running late."

Her eyes dimmed. "I suppose that's true." She cast another glance back. "But I'm afraid . . . ," she bit her lower lip, then finished lamely, "that he's a bit later than usual."

He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the house himself. He couldn't see anything through the tightly closed curtains. He shifted a bit on his bike, searching for a reply, but little came to mind. They waited a moment in awkward silence before Nanako turned toward the gate, saying, "I should find out what's keeping him."

Momo nodded. "Uh, sure."

It wasn't long after she disappeared through the front door that the motionless silence in the house shattered.

"NO! I'm not going! Not with my FACE like THIS!"

Momo started, staring in shock over the gate at the house. Was that Echizen? But he never raised his voice. He was like Tezuka, just slightly less stone-faced.

An older man's raised voice came out to Momo a bit muffled through the walls, but it certainly sounded like he was struggling to hold onto his fraying patience. Five beats of silence, then came the slam of the front door. With wide eyes, the junior watched a rumpled Echizen march down the concrete walk and yank open the gate. One quick, violent glance from beneath his cap, coupled with the still-obvious bruising on his face, was more than plenty to lock Momo's teeth together. The boy plunked down on the carrier above the bike's back tire and hunched over, clutching the strap of his tennis/school bag a bit too tightly in his right hand.

Still without a word, Momo pushed off, setting up a steady pace. The waves of tension radiating out from the boy behind him made his back and neck tighten in contagious response. He took a corner a bit too quickly, and he felt a small, stiff hand settle on his side for balance.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Echizen didn't respond, but then, he didn't really expect it – not in a mood like that. The younger boy's hand fell away, and Momo was just a little glad. He knew intellectually that he himself had nothing to do with Echizen's fury, but he still didn't like being touched with anger – too much pressure, too little regard for potential pain, and the emotion rang through loud and clear.

Resentment welled up in Momo in spite of himself. It wasn't as though none of the other regulars had gotten hurt – but they still went to school, some even with bruises and swelling on their faces like Kaidoh. Echizen's brusises weren't even black and blue any longer, but green. Damn arrogant brat. He hadn't thought he'd be so vain. The freshman had had a whole week off – the same week they'd planned for that disaster of a cruise – so what more did he want? He got his vacation.

Momo mentally shook himself. That wasn't fair. He'd seen firsthand how injured the boy had been and how he'd acted just afterward . . . although he still didn't know the details of what had happened when Sakurafubuki had had Echizen alone and everyone was searching the ship. Momo wasn't really sure that he wanted to know, in truth. What was enough to reduce an overweening, smirking Echizen to a trembling, near-catatonic mess?

Yeah, he probably didn't want to know.

It was two silent boys who dismounted the bike at the school, one fuming and the other cautious. Despite the frayed tension, they walked in lockstep toward the locker rooms. Momo, on the side closest to the courts, turned his head as they passed, noting that most everyone seemed to already be changed and milling around. He couldn't help a small smile: almost late again. Well, just under the wire was still under, so who cared?

Echizen shoved open the locker room door and let it begin to slam shut behind him. Half a step behind, Momo had to slam a hand up to stop the heavy metal from ramming into his nose. He scowled at his kouhai's back, muttering, "So mean, Echizen. So mean."

As expected, the brat did not react. A quick look around showed absolutely no one else still changing. The junior grimaced. Maybe they were later than he thought. He moved up to his cubby a little ways down the row from Echizen's and pulled his shirt off over his head, tossing it in on top of his other waiting clothes. In the process of kicking his shoes off, he glanced to his left at the freshman and paused mid-motion. The other boy was just standing there, staring at his own clothes, or maybe at nothing at all. Momo finished pulling off his shoes, finally asking, "Hey, Echizen, you all right?"

The twelve-year-old's head snapped toward him, hazel eyes narrowed. "Fine," he snapped – his first word of the morning.

Momo just shrugged, deciding to take the response as what it was: an improvement over the silence. "Okay, then." In short order, he'd finished changing, while Echizen had yet to even make a move toward doing so. He hesitated, wondering whether he should wait for him as usual or not. However, the other boy wasn't exactly in a sociable mood, to put it mildly, and so Momo headed out onto the court alone.

* * *

Ryoma breathed a sigh of relief when the door shut behind the junior. He'd take being late and running laps over having to change in front of anyone, best friend or no. It had been such a relief that his black school uniform went from toe to wrist to neck, even with enough of a collar to hide most of the finger imprints on his neck. Unfortunately, he couldn't wear the outfit during practice – he'd melt in the heat, at the very least, though he wouldn't mind that too terribly; rather, he wouldn't be allowed to wear it. Quite frankly, even though it was for tennis, he wasn't at all sure he wanted to bare that much skin.

But with a bracing breath, he took off his cap, gripped the hem of his shirt in both hands and inched it over his head, wincing as the motion pulled at still-healing injuries. Goosebumps rose along his arms. If anyone would have walked into the room at that moment, he was sure they would have gasped in shock at the sight of his back, which was turned to the entrance. More green now than purple, the massive bruising was obviously painful and must at one time have been grotesque; he hadn't dared look fully.

With shaking hands, Ryoma reached out to his cubby, then removed and unfolded his Seigaku blazer, holding it out by the shoulders. He surveyed the crisp white and blue cloth, the slight creases from sitting unused for a week, the mild wear at the wrists. He let out a little sigh. Thank goodness the matches for regular spots hadn't been too long ago. It would have been horrific to face the possibility of losing this, too – to lose it _because_ of what happened. So much, too much was already stolen from him.

Setting that aside for the moment, he pulled on his Seigaku T-shirt, settling it across his shoulders with a shrug. He roughly kicked off his shoes, then unbuttoned and unzipped his black slacks and hooked his thumbs in the waistband. Again, he hesitated. With a mental slap upside the head to stop being so foolish, he shucked them in one quick motion and immediately yanked on the shorts. Breathing a little easier, he leaned over, a wince twitching across his cheeks, and tugged on his tennis shoes. After tossing his hat back on, and after grabbing a racket out of his bag and slinging said bag over his right shoulder (he'd just have to pretend to be right-handed today), he strode out of the locker room. He deliberately did not look down at his bruised lower legs or the handprint marks on his bare upper arms from where he'd been carried around like a rag doll. Everyone else would just have to deal with it.

Despite his brave words, his shoulders drew into a tighter and tighter knot the closer he got to the chainlink gate and beyond that, all the other tennis club members. His feet came to a halt by themselves as he stared, trembling, at all the people. Oh, god, there was the freshman trio always cheering him on at matches. Were the girls there? He couldn't spot them at the moment, but that didn't mean much, not when they were in the habit of sneaking up on him and doing strange things like shoving handmade posters into his face.

He was not ready for this. As a matter of fact, he was going to kill his dad the minute he got home for making him do this. His injuries were so obvious_,_it was ridiculous. Sure, Nanako had offered her concealer for his face, but he'd be damned if he'd accept being any more girly than he already felt for being so god-awfully **weak. **Besides, what would it matter when he had to bare his arms and legs for practice? It was pointless.

Ryoma was positive: everyone was going to look at him and know, know just how helpless he was, know that he couldn't defend himself when it mattered most. All those other freshmen who looked up to him for being a regular – practically a frickin' hero – would never want to look at him again. Hell, he couldn't stand to look at himself, so why would they? Why would anyone?

Oh no, the Captain was looking his way. If Ryoma hadn't already been frozen stiff, he would be now. His feet might as well have been encased in solid concrete for as likely as they were to move. Just relax, he thought, they can't see anything from this far away, much less his petrified expression beneath his cap's shadow. Only the Coach and the Captain were facing this direction, as all the others were lined up ready and waiting for the morning practice. Nevertheless, he'd been spotted – by Tezuka no less – and so he could no longer afford to stand here like a rabbit waiting for the wolf to pass by. Self-disgust rose in him, causing him to gather up the shreds of his confidence, simultaneously bolstered by and humiliated by the steel, unflinching gaze of his Captain.

Heaving a breath that shuddered throughout his chest, Ryoma forced his wooden legs into motion, a motion consisting of halting steps that were of half a mind of their own to turn tail and take off out of there, leaving the whole situation in his rearview – but only half a mind, as the rest of him firmly refused to be that much of a coward. These people were his friends, or at least his teammates. It would be fine.

Much to Ryoma's surprise and pleasure, neither Tezuka-buchou nor Ryuzaki-sensei spoke a word when he edged into the line of regulars at the front, late on his first day back, though both watched his progress unreadably. Despite what his hunched shoulders were anticipating, no whispers broke out behind him either, not in indignation at his lack of punishment nor in speculation at his week-long absence; the silence felt ominous, and it stretched to the breaking point. He felt the stares of the other regulars and the team members behind him – or at least he thought he did – but he kept his gaze firmly on the court beneath his white tennis shoes, face shadowed as much as possible by his cap and his bangs.

Then practice began as it always did, as though nothing had gone so horrifically wrong, as though it was simply another nondescript Monday in a long string of Mondays. Ryoma breathed a sigh of relief, but was unwilling yet to let down his guard; he had all of the day yet to get through, and it was going to be a bear of a day – he could feel it in his bones. Before long, the team dispersed, and he found himself back beside the fence, although this time firmly on the inside of it, and digging through his bag to unearth his favorite racket.

Then an all-too-familiar cry, growing rapidly closer, rang out from behind him. "Ryoma-sama!" one of the girls screeched. "You're back!" Against his will, he straightened and turned slowly to face her, his expression tight. She stumbled to a graceless halt, grinning from ear to ear at him. He watched as she raked her gaze over him, lingering over the dark, painful patches of his skin, and her countenance shifted from joy to dismay. "Are . . . are you all right?" she asked, a hesitance foreign to her nature etching into her voice. Ryoma's right-handed grip around his racket tightened, though he still maintained the presence of mind not to clench his left hand into a fist as well, or he'd risk cracking open the scab on his palm for the umpteenth time. His jaw had locked down with anger, his teeth gritted together so tightly they ached. Any and all words he could have scratched out would have only served to alienate her, and so he said nothing.

The red-head's customary pigtails were all in disarray, presumably from her mad dash toward him, and a light gust of wind lifted out the red slash of fabric barely holding up her sagging left pigtail. The hair dropped and slid into her face, making her sputter indignantly, but Ryoma's eyes were glued to the crimson ribbon fluttering to the ground.

_Ryoma's hands were useless lumps of flesh, clutched painfully tightly in a single much bigger fist and pressed to the bed above the boy's head. The man smiled down at him, his goatee lining thin lips that only spread thinner with that smile's mockery of gentleness. A cherry red strip of fabric dangled, waiting, from the man's other hand, and then the gag was between his teeth and digging against his cheeks. It tasted like soap and felt rough against his tongue, quickly soaking up what saliva he had left in his desert-dry mouth. _

_Why did the fabric taste like soap? If he wasn't already gagging from the forced French kiss of a moment ago, that tang alone would have pushed him to the edge of vomiting. He wouldn't have minded puking all over the man, but as it was, he had no choice but to fight against the urge or he'd choke on his own bile._

_That horrible smile faded from the man's face. "Oh, now look. I cannot kiss you." _

_Tears pricked at Ryoma's eyes. He would have bowed down and worshipped Kami-sama if a kiss was all the man wanted, but he knew . . . he knew it wasn't._

Tomoka Osakada watched in surprise and confusion as her hero stared at the hair ribbon lying innocuously at his feet. Shadowed by his cap, she couldn't see his wide, wide gaze, but she saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, and she stared as the visible heaves of his chest grew faster and faster while he edged toward hyperventilation. A fine trembling began throughout his body. She took a step toward him. "Ryoma-sama?"

He didn't seem to hear her. "No," he began to chant under his breath, "no, no, no, no, no. . . ."

_The man leaned in toward his face, wafting in the acrid scent of cigar smoke on his breath and pressing his stubble-rough cheek next to the boy's smooth one. "Soon now," he whispered into Ryoma's ear, giving it a quick flick with his tongue, "soon you will realize how much I love you." The wet touch against his ear felt warm for an instant, then cool and disgustingly wet._

Tomo-chan glanced a bit desperately around the courts, but no one else had noticed anything yet. She reached out and gripped his shoulders, shaking him back and forth, but he just kept up his unnerving mantra of, "No, no, no, no." Frantic now, she snatched up the ribbon he was staring at and stuffed it in her pocket, yet he still continued to stare through the ground where the fabric had lain.

"Oi, Tomo-chan!" Sakuno Ryuzaki called from behind her, waving a hand. "Ryoma-kun!" She slowed as she approached, noting the fear on her friend's face and the unnatural, listing posture of the freshman regular.

"Sakuno!" the other girl cried. "Get your grandma!"

The contagion of fear spread to Sakuno and she tensed for a moment, frozen. Then she bolted across the courts. It only took a moment for the girl to reach her grandma's side, and she pointed with her arm out straight, staring up with fright in every line of her body. The coach snapped her head toward the two freshmen. She didn't quite come running, but it was close.

Tomoka scrambled back out of the way once the woman got there and scurried to Sakuno's side.

Ryuzaki Sumire got her first good look at him and had to bite back a gasp. Those bruises! She shuddered to think of how they must have looked when they were fresh. No wonder Nanjiroh had been so terrified and angry when he called her, demanding to know what had happened to his son. She almost cringed when she recalled how dismissive she'd been: "Well, I'm sure he'll be okay." That was all that she had to say in response to this? Shame swept over her.

It was all so much worse than what she could have imagined. What was this—a disassociation? A flashback? Some variation of catatonia? The other regulars' description of what had happened on that cruise shriveled up and paled; words could never suffice. This, this is what she had allowed to happen. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have let them go by themselves? Maybe if she'd been there. . . .

Ryuzaki heaved a composing breath and shoved her guilt deep inside, to be dealt with later. She crouched in front of Ryoma. "Echizen," she said gently. He just continued to stare at the ground, rocking back and forth slightly, his bandaged hand clutching his middle and his other white-knuckled around a racket.

"Echizen," Ryuzaki repeated, a little more forcefullly. Still, he did not react. She frowned to herself. "Echizen!" He flinched, but finally stopped that nerve-racking muttering. "Echizen, look at me," she requested quietly. "You're safe, Echizen. You're safe here. It's all right. No one's going to hurt you." Still, no change.

She was beginning to edge toward desperate, but she could still sense the two girls hovering behind her. Their little group was drawing curious glances from the other members of the team now. Ryuzaki snapped at herself that she was the adult here, and she could not afford to crumble to pieces in sympathetic fright.

But that didn't mean she quite knew what to do, either. She just knew that somehow, she had to get him to respond to her, to return from wherever his mind had taken him. With a deep breath, she risked resting a hand on his upper arm. He flinched again, but that was all. Ryuzaki called his name, saying, "You're safe. Come on, look at me." She gave a little shake, encouraged when his gaze wavered for the first time. "Come on, that's right, Echizen. Look at me." Ever so slowly, his eyes lifted to hers.

She gave him an encouraging smile, thinking fast. How could she anchor him here, in reality, away from whatever memories had frightened him so? "Can you describe for me what you're seeing here, at the tennis courts? Tell me five things that you see." His wide hazel eyes, trembling with tears, stared at her before flicking around the courts.

After an eternity, he murmured, "Net. . . balls. Uh, fence. Bench." His gaze returned to her face, searching for something there that she hoped she was giving. "Ryuzaki-sensei."

Her gentle smile widened, and she nodded. "Good, Echizen. That's good. Now can you tell me five things that you hear?"

Ryoma shivered, but complied. "Um . . . rackets. Wind. . . ." He trailed off and fell silent for so long that she grew afraid she'd lost him.

"Go on, Echizen. Three more. Just three more things that you can hear right now."

He licked his lips, the flinching around his eyes heartbreaking to see. His voice cracked as he muttered, "Tennis balls. Uh . . . people talking?" He stopped and eventually shook his head, unable to name any more.

"That's all right, Echizen. You did a good job." She patted his arm. "Why don't you come sit with me on the bench here?" she asked, shifting her touch to a guiding presence at the back of his shoulder. She rocked back to flat-footed from where she had crouched on the balls of her feet and stood, ignoring the painful creak of her knees. "Come on, Echizen. Right next to your bag, okay?"

He shuffled over a few half-steps to the bench and collapsed on it, slumped against the wooden back. Sniffling, he scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

"Is he all right, Ryuzaki-sensei?" Oishi asked hesitantly, startling her heart up into her throat.

Ryoma gasped and recoiled, staring with wide eyes at the Vice Captain, whose concerned expression shifted into self-deprecation. "Sorry!" Oishi exclaimed, before dropping his watery gaze and repeating in a whisper, "Sorry." He took a deep breath. "I didn't mean to scare you. I just . . . are you all right, Echizen?" he asked, glancing up with eyes wide and earnest.

Ryoma just stared. Oishi looked away again, chewing his lower lip.

Ryuzaki looked past the Vice-Captain to the two girls clutching at each other, to Momo hovering just behind them, then to all the other team members staring and trying to look like they weren't. For the lack of volume throughout the incident, they had still somehow managed to become the center of attention. She glanced at Ryoma, but his head was tilted skyward and resting on the back of the bench, eyes closed. He didn't seem to have noticed yet.

"Vice-Captain," she commanded, "your team is slacking off."

Oishi's back stiffened. He glanced over his shoulder and when he turned back, she knew he understood by his expression. After one more glance to Ryoma, he whirled on his heel and waved his arms, calling for everyone to get back to practice. And if his voice cracked a little, no one dared comment.

Momo shuffled forward, his movements hesitant and awkward. "Echizen?"

Ryoma's voice was weary and strained. "Momo-senpai."

The older boy shuffled his feet. "Are you . . . okay?"

"No." He brought his head up, leveling a flat, watery look at the junior. His face was sickly pale. "I'm not."

Ryuzaki hesitated before asking gently, "Would you like to go up and visit the nurse, Echizen? Or maybe go back home for the day?"

He let his head flop against the back of the bench, closed his eyes and shrugged. He looked wrecked. Perhaps a week was still too soon to return to school. Did anyone know what had happened before the other regulars had found him, while he was alone with that monster?

"I could call your father," she offered at last.

Again, he just shrugged. She glanced up at Momo, but he looked helpless and near tears himself. She knew they were close. Perhaps he could do with a break, too. "Would you like to take him? I know you usually ride together."

Hope lit the junior's face. Then he bit his lip. "Echizen?"

"Yeah." Ryoma heaved himself upright. "Okay." He scrubbed surreptitiously at his eyes again and stood. "Let's go."


End file.
